“Open the box.”
“Tell me.”
“Mack—”
“Tell me.”
Eli looked frightened.
That stopped him.
Mack closed his eyes.
Exhaled.
When he opened them, his voice was quieter.
“Okay.”
He picked up the silver key.
“Show me the shed.”
6
The signal shed stood above the eastern bank where an old maintenance road climbed from the river.
Thirty-three years earlier, it had housed electrical controls, warning equipment, and emergency telephones.
Now vines covered half the wall.
The door hung crooked.
The county supervisor stayed with the other bikers.
Mack walked with Eli and his mother.
The boy carried the lunchbox.
Nobody spoke.
Inside the shed, broken shelves lined the walls.
An old metal cabinet stood in the corner.
Mack went directly to it.
He did remember.
Walter used to hide cigarettes there even though he claimed he had quit.
Mack opened the cabinet.
Empty.
Eli read his grandfather’s letter again.
“He said a box.”
Mack looked around.
“Maybe behind.”
They moved the cabinet.
Nothing.
The boy’s mother checked beneath a damaged workbench.
No box.
Mack’s frustration rose.
Thirty-three years.
Water.
Rust.
Teenagers.
Workers.
Anything could have happened.
Then Eli noticed something.
“Red.”
Mack turned.
“What?”
The boy pointed toward the wall.
A tiny strip of faded red fabric protruded from a crack between two boards.
Same color as Walter’s glove patch.
Eli pulled.
A thin cord came free.
Attached to it was a small metal ring.
Mack pulled the ring.
Part of the wall panel shifted.
Hidden compartment.
Inside sat a narrow steel cash box.
The boy stared at it.
“Grandpa really liked hiding stuff.”
Mack almost laughed.
“That he did.”
The silver key opened the box.
Inside were photographs.
A folded birth certificate.
Two letters.
And a small velvet pouch.
Mack saw the first photograph.
His entire body went still.
A young man stood beside Walter near Red Hollow.
Twenty-two.
Dark hair.
Thin face.
Uneasy smile.
Mack knew him.
His son.
Aaron.
The photograph slipped from Mack’s fingers.
Eli looked down.
“Who is that?”
Mack could not answer.
His mother could.
“Your father.”
Eli stared at her.
“What?”
She picked up the photograph.
“That’s your dad.”
Eli looked between her and Mack.
Mack sat heavily on the old workbench.
The room began to tilt.
He had not seen his son’s face in twelve years.
Not since the funeral.
Not since standing behind a church while people who knew Aaron better than he did talked about the life his son had built after walking away from him.