I've been contracted by the Bureau a dozen times in the last four years, mostly sinkhole

reports or rural spill assessments, the kind of work no one notices until it costs someone

money.

This one came through late in the season.

An old mine outside a place called Ever Creek, tucked in a valley

that didn't show up on GPS until we were nearly there. The brief was minimal. A collapsed

shaft from the 1930s reportedly sealed after 17 fatalities. The town's records were inconsistent, and what little

had been digitized didn't match the states. Our job was to assess any remaining liability,

test for subsistence, and determine if the land could be safely reclassified for Timberlees.

In and out, no contact needed with the town's folk beyond a courtesy heads up.

We hit the edge of town around noon.

October had already stripped most of the trees and the wind blew low through the bare branches

in irregular pulses, the way wind does through the bare branches in irregular pulses,

the way wind does when the landscape feels hollow.

Fog clung to the roots of the hills, moving only when we did.

Ever Creek was smaller than I expected.

A gas station, a diner, a short main road that curved lazily around the church and disappeared back into the trees.

Maybe 300 people, if that.

Some looked up when we passed, but no one waved.

No one asked what brought us.

They just watched, silent, still, returning to their tasks only when our car moved on.

We checked into the motel.

...