“Thank you, Carl,” I said.

He picked up his metal locator and walked toward his truck, his work boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.

I stayed by the rusted pin, looking at the distance between the iron pipe and the raw, sweet-smelling cedar wood.

Emma was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked inside, a cardboard box of college textbooks resting on the chair beside her.

She was twisting her silver ring around her thumb, her eyes fixed on the white paper tax assessor map I had spread across the Formica.