“What was that?” he asked again.
This time the question was meant for me.
I did not look up.
He stopped beside me and scanned the wet soil.
His mother appeared behind the screen door.
Mara stayed near the porch steps, one hand wrapped around the railing.
My husband crouched and pressed his palm into the dirt near my shoulder.
The pressure shifted the soil against my jaw.
I fought the urge to turn away.
“You didn’t bring something out here, did you?” he whispered.
His voice had changed.
The patience was gone.
So was the amusement.
His fingers dug through the top layer of mud, searching in widening circles.
They scraped across small stones and roots.
Then they touched the freezer bag.
He froze.
For one second, neither of us moved.
His fingertips pressed against the cloudy plastic, and I felt the shape of the phone shift beneath the dirt.
His eyes snapped to mine.
I kept breathing through the straw.
He curled his fingers around the edge of the bag.
I moved my buried hand.
The space around my wrist was barely enough, and my numb fingers did not want to obey me.
I pushed once and missed.
My husband began pulling the bag free.
Wet soil slid away from the plastic.
The corner of the phone appeared.
I pressed again.
This time my fingertip found the side button beneath the dirt.
The phone screen lit through the cloudy plastic.
My husband stared at the glow.
Mara took one step backward.
His mother opened the screen door but did not come outside.
A calm voice came through the dirt.
“Sheriff’s dispatch,” the woman said. “We have your location. Keep him talking.”
