Cole Ward

The latch finally gives. Does not open the box. Sets it carefully on the dry marble table and straightens, water cold against his boots.

It's intact. The cedar held.

Something in his expression shifts from professional to careful.

There are letters in there with your name on them. Not your grandmother's handwriting — someone else's. We have maybe forty minutes before the surge gauge hits the stairs. Do you want to open it here, or get it out first?