20

Pietra

F

Frances had completely abandoned work on the Neolithic cave. I was almost relieved. The thought of going back to cataloging fox bones and stone chips after everything that had happened filled me with dread. Instead, she and Ruth spent most of the day in the caves, delicate brushes in hand, cleaning dirt and dust from the paintings, ready for the university's professional photographer, who would arrive tomorrow. The cave was narrow and couldn't accommodate more than two people at a time, or so Ruth had happily explained when she'd ordered me to stay behind at camp.

Fine by me. Rain clouds rolled over the forest, sending enough water to restart a biblical flood. Instead of walking through the cold caves, I sat in the trailer, wrapped in a wool shirt, scarf, and gloves, reading Heinlein while sipping my third hot tea of the day.

It was my job to talk to the Daily Post reporters, who would arrive later that morning. Meanwhile, I was enjoying one of the rare downtimes on the site.