I turn and walk to Ella, scooping her up even though she’s sandy and sweaty and my back is screaming in protest. “Shh, I know. I know you’re hot. Let’s get you some water.”
I carry her back to our tent, fuming. The nerve of that man. As if I’m not working as hard as humanly possible. As if I’m not managing an excavation while single-handedly caring for a toddler in the middle of the desert.
Inside the tent, I strip Ella down to her diaper, wipe her with a cool cloth, give her water. She’s cranky and overtired, fighting the nap she desperately needs.
“I know, sweetheart. I know everything is hard right now. But we’re doing our best, aren’t we?”
She whimpers against my shoulder, and I feel tears prick my own eyes. What am I doing? Why did I think this could work? But then I remember the pottery fragments. The beautiful cobalt glaze. The patterns emerging from the sand. Henry’s theories taking shape in physical form. I can’t give up now.
Ella finally falls asleep, and I lay her carefully in her portable crib. My body is screaming for rest too, but instead I grab my notebook and head back out.
The site is quieter now. It’s past two o’clock, and most people have retreated to shade to escape the worst of the afternoon heat. Omar and Yasmin are working in the documentation tent, cataloging the day’s finds.
I should join them. Should help with the meticulous work of recording, measuring, photographing. Instead, I find myself drawn back to the ceremonial vase fragments.
They’re laid out on a work table in the tent, each piece carefully positioned. We’ve identified most of the vessel now, enough to understand its basic shape and size. But the markings on it… something about them has been nagging at me.
I pull out my tablet and start comparing the symbols to reference materials. There should be some sort of nugget to find, but nothing quite matches.
“You’re still working?”
I look up to find Edmond in the tent entrance, holding a water bottle.
“Can’t stop thinking about these symbols,” I admit.
“They’re beautiful. But don’t exhaust yourself. We have months ahead of us.”
“I know. I just… there’s something here. I can feel it.”
He smiles kindly. “The archaeologist’s intuition. Calvin doesn’t understand it, but it’s real.”
“Calvin doesn’t understand a lot of things.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure. Self-imposed, mostly, but still real.”
“We’re all under pressure,” I point out. “But some of us manage not to be insufferable about it.”
Edmond chuckles. “Fair point. Just… try to be patient with him. He’s not a bad person. Just terrified.”
After Edmond leaves, I return to the symbols. My eyes are tired, my brain fuzzy from exhaustion, but I keep staring. There’s a pattern. I know there’s a pattern.
The afternoon heat begins to fade into evening cool. I hear the camp coming back to life, with people emerging from their tents, Fatima starting dinner preparations, voices carrying across the sand.
I should wake Ella from her nap so she doesn’t stay up too late tonight. Should eat something. Should rest.
But I keep staring at these symbols. And then, like a flash of lightning, I see it. It’s not text. It’s not decoration. It’s a map.
My heart starts racing. I grab a piece of paper and start sketching rapidly, connecting symbols, tracing patterns. The curved line here represents the curve of a valley. This cluster of marks indicates a water source. These shapes…
“Oh, my God,” I breathe.
“Talking to yourself?”
I jump. Calvin has entered the tent without me noticing, his expression still cold from our earlier argument.
“These symbols,” I say, too excited to care about his mood. “They’re directions.”
“What?”
