The last thing left for him to do is to disappear too.
“I give up,” she says, her voice crackling. “This is enough. You should go.”
“It was the only way to keep Clever Girl alive,” he whispers. “Please, Ripley.”
“And now Clever Girl is dead, so good job, us, I guess. Walk away, James. Catch that flight your sister’s on. You were leaving anyway. What difference will seven days make?”
Seven days is nothing. Seven days is everything.
“All my things,” he says hollowly. “They’re at the dig.”
“I’ll overnight them,” she says. “Save you the trip.”
36
September 5:
Eight Days After the End of the Summer Excavation Season
Ripley can’t find the rock.
This is grief, she’s pretty sure: In the place where something should be, it’s not there anymore.
At camp, the picnic table is mostly empty, the games put away. They tried, but it wasn’t the same.
In her cabin, there are two naked brass nails in the wall over the spare bed, the pictures wrapped and shipped with the rest of the things that didn’t belong to Ripley, even if they once felt like they did. Someday, she’ll walk through her dad’s empty trailer with this same feeling, like time has moved on and left her behind.
After what happened with Beauty and Beast, the younger crew didn’t stick around long, and Ripley didn’t expect them to. To see a summer’s worth of work evaporate in a morning—that’s not easy for anyone.
Finn sobbed until he threw up, and the next day, a red-eyed Fiona pulled Ripley aside and asked if it was okay if she took her brother home to California early.
Jordin left a couple of days later. Harvard’s freshman orientation was the last week of August, and she was a group leader this year. Ripley promised to write her a reference letter, but given theintense media interest in the FBI impoundment, Jordin probably won’t want anything with Ripley’s name on it. The Smithson Foundation hasn’t caught a lot of negative press, and Ripley’s not sure whether she’s annoyed or relieved by that.
In the canyon this overcast morning, there are no voices, no misplaced tools, no one yelling at Finn because he’s sneaked Norwegian death metal onto the communal playlist. The newly installed orange survey stakes—part of the legal effort mounted by Cara and Geraldine, the Tribal council, and James’s foundation—make Ripley feel strangely displaced, like she’s been gone for years and come back to find everything changed. But she should be able to spot where James buried the rock. There should be a disturbance in the matrix—a small, unnatural mound in the canyon floor or a place where the flaky soil points in the wrong direction after being dug up. No matter how hard she searches, though, the rock won’t show itself. She’s relaxed her eyes all up and down this damn canyon, and nothing.
The thing is, she never held it. James showed it to her, but he never put it in her hand. She never felt its firm weight in her palm. She didn’t trace the depth of his lettering in the soft stone. In the cemetery beside the trailer park, she’s seen headstones worn to illegibility after a single century, and those carvings were a half an inch deep. How long would it take to wash away the barest scratch, made in minutes?
If she could look at the letters one more time, remember how the swirls went, she might feel better. If she held it even once, maybe she’d know why she can’t stop thinking about it.
“Rip! Lunch,” Cara calls from the top of the canyon stairs.
And just like that, her time is up. Even if everything someone worked for is gone, the site needs to be shut down. Fossils needto be capped. Tools need to be gathered and cleaned and stored; the cabins need to be shuttered against the long, harsh winter.
A meteor strikes. The world ends.
Life goes on.
She holds her head high as she climbs the stairs. She wants to leave here in a certain way.
Renzo’s gone now, so lunch and dinner are whatever Geraldine makes and sends a ranch hand to drop off in the mornings. It’s usually the same food for both meals. Sometimes Griff grills the leftovers at dinner so it feels like there’s more variety.
“See anything?” Matteo asks, handing Ripley a cheese sandwich.
“Nope. Today is not my day, I guess.”
Ripley was never more surprised than when Matteo asked if he could stay for the postseason cleanup. He said he didn’t need pay, but Ripley has enough funds for two weeks of his salary after the twins’ early departure. Redirecting the money to Matteo is one of the only things that makes her feel good these days. She hopes Cara will ask him back next summer—if there is a next summer—but if not, she’ll shake her web of contacts and see what falls out.
Ripley bends her sandwich experimentally. These will be good eating tonight, when they’re grilled, but straight from the cooler, they’re cold and a bit unyielding. The first bite makes her want to cry, but a lot of things make her want to cry lately, so it’s probably not entirely the sandwich’s fault. She washes down the lump in her throat with lukewarm Gatorade from her water bottle.
