The house was unusually quiet.

We had washed the mud from his jacket, scrubbed the floor near the doorway, and put his torn gloves in a bag.

Still, I imagined the smell of the tunnel whenever I passed the hallway.

“Are you feeling sick?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I keep thinking I hear the beam moving.”

I sat beside him.

The room looked the same as it had all summer, with a soccer poster on the wall, books balanced on the desk, and an unfinished school project in the corner.