Two weeks after Rick Malloy was arrested, the pasture finally looked like itself again—mud drying into cracked plates, cows wandering back to the tree line like nothing had ever happened.
But Daniel couldn’t walk that section without hearing the same three things in his head:
the hollow drip underground,
the scrape of his own boots on gravel,
and the dispatcher’s calm voice asking if he was in immediate danger.
The answer—he realized now—was yes. He just hadn’t known it yet.
He’d filled the hole with gravel and clay under the county’s supervision. A crew had poured concrete down the shaft, then capped it like a grave.
“Permanent seal,” the state inspector said, stamping paperwork. “No one’s going back in.”
Daniel nodded like that meant peace.
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