It's just after six on a Saturday evening in 1983, forty-five minutes before the worst earthquake in the history of Acadia, Washington.
Lily's father is no longer talking to her as they walk. He moves silently beside her, pulling her onward along the cracked and scarred concrete. They leave the outer edges of the city behind, and the soft, smudgy glow of streetlights and neon signs surround them in a curtain of light. People--townies, tourists, bicyclists, dog-walkers, club-goers--choke up the streets and dip suddenly out of alleys. Now Lily outpaces her father. She leads him through the crush of people on a path that carries them smoothly across every road in their way. Her father's hand on hers is hard, and he keeps looking down at the watch on his other wrist.
"What's wrong?" He blinks down at Lily. They've hit their first red light.
"Nothing," he says. Her father keeps his eyes on his watch. The crowd grows larger with each pedestrian and bike and dog restrained by the glaring red hand he won't look up to see.
"You gotta know what time it is now," Lily says. "Is somethin' wrong?" Her father keeps his eyes on his watch.
"Nothing's wrong, Lil. I'm excited. You're going to do wonderfully."
"You think so?" Her father squeezes her hand. For a moment, his eyes flick onto hers.
"I know so," he says. The lights change, and Lily leads her father onward through the school of pedestrians.
It's half an hour before the earthquake. None of the drivers or passing pedestrians give Lily and her father a glance as they turn into the dark maw of a defunct subway station. Her father lifts her over pieces of broken barricade and caution tape. They descend slick, broken stairs lit only by her father's flashlight. The stairs give out, and they slide and stagger down the rough, half-formed path. Piles of dirt loom large in the light, fading into shadow as the two pass. Lily's father shivers in the chill. The ground suddenly levels out, and Lily supports her father as the man stumbles. It's quiet as a building storm. The two of them head for a faint glow in the distance.
It's a penlight. A young woman reading a cheap paperback in its light glances up at them as they approach. She sits on the lip of an immense hole. Lily's father plays his flashlight over the man jackhammering down below.
"Alright, Maria," Lily's father says. The jackhammer breaks the silence with a roar; the sound worsens when the tool twists out of the worker's hands, and then stutters into silence.
"Jesus! Maria--" The man looks up. "Oh, Monty! You're early." Lily's father squeezes her hand.
"We made good time," he says. "Ready for us, yet?" The other man shakes his head.
"Almost. Almost room. Just give me and Maria a few." Monty raises his hand in acknowledgement, and the worker lifts the jackhammer back to its point. It sputters angrily, and then falls silent again. Lily stares at Maria until her father pulls her away.
"It's going to be fine," her father says. He lifts Lily up to set her on a pinewood box some distance from the pit. It's propped up on bags of instant concrete; they both ignore the way it creaks under her weight. "This is catalyst we need, here in the epicenter. Excited?" he asks.Lily's father is no longer talking to her as they walk. He moves silently beside her, pulling her onward along the cracked and scarred concrete. They leave the outer edges of the city behind, and the soft, smudgy glow of streetlights and neon signs surround them in a curtain of light. People--townies, tourists, bicyclists, dog-walkers, club-goers--choke up the streets and dip suddenly out of alleys. Now Lily outpaces her father. She leads him through the crush of people on a path that carries them smoothly across every road in their way. Her father's hand on hers is hard, and he keeps looking down at the watch on his other wrist.
"What's wrong?" He blinks down at Lily. They've hit their first red light.
"Nothing," he says. Her father keeps his eyes on his watch. The crowd grows larger with each pedestrian and bike and dog restrained by the glaring red hand he won't look up to see.
"You gotta know what time it is now," Lily says. "Is somethin' wrong?" Her father keeps his eyes on his watch.
"Nothing's wrong, Lil. I'm excited. You're going to do wonderfully."
"You think so?" Her father squeezes her hand. For a moment, his eyes flick onto hers.
"I know so," he says. The lights change, and Lily leads her father onward through the school of pedestrians.
It's half an hour before the earthquake. None of the drivers or passing pedestrians give Lily and her father a glance as they turn into the dark maw of a defunct subway station. Her father lifts her over pieces of broken barricade and caution tape. They descend slick, broken stairs lit only by her father's flashlight. The stairs give out, and they slide and stagger down the rough, half-formed path. Piles of dirt loom large in the light, fading into shadow as the two pass. Lily's father shivers in the chill. The ground suddenly levels out, and Lily supports her father as the man stumbles. It's quiet as a building storm. The two of them head for a faint glow in the distance.
It's a penlight. A young woman reading a cheap paperback in its light glances up at them as they approach. She sits on the lip of an immense hole. Lily's father plays his flashlight over the man jackhammering down below.
"Alright, Maria," Lily's father says. The jackhammer breaks the silence with a roar; the sound worsens when the tool twists out of the worker's hands, and then stutters into silence.
"Jesus! Maria--" The man looks up. "Oh, Monty! You're early." Lily's father squeezes her hand.
"We made good time," he says. "Ready for us, yet?" The other man shakes his head.
"Almost. Almost room. Just give me and Maria a few." Monty raises his hand in acknowledgement, and the worker lifts the jackhammer back to its point. It sputters angrily, and then falls silent again. Lily stares at Maria until her father pulls her away.
"Sure," Lily says. She traces her fingers over the coffin's splintering wood. She can feel the jackhammer, even though Maria's presence snuffs out its vibrations. "Fifteen minutes," she murmurs.
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