“They’re saying it was an earthquake. That Dawson and his men were doing a late-night inspection and got trapped inside. They’re still digging for them, although everybody knows he’s probably dead by now.”

I thought of Dawson’s pale hand sticking out the mound of earth and stone—and the way I’d cut the dwarf ’s wrist just to make sure. “Yeah, Dawson’s dead and buried.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t end up the same way,” Warren said.

I stared at the wreckage on the television. The sound of the earth rumbling and the stone shrieking rang in my ears. “Me too.”

Jo-Jo went to call Finn and Sophia and tell them that I was finally awake, leaving me alone in the den with Warren.

The old coot heaved himself out of his recliner, bones cracking, and disappeared. I watched the news coverage of the mine disaster.

Warren came back a minute later carrying a small picture frame. He stared at it a moment, then shoved it into my hands. “Here. I know I can’t pay you for what you did with Dawson and all that you suffered. But I’d like to give you something, and I thought you might want this.”

I stared at the picture. A fine layer of dust covered the frame, which I wiped away with the edge of my T-shirt.

The picture might have been in color at one time, but it had long ago faded to a dull yellow. Two young men, little more than teenagers, looked up at me. The shorter man was obviously Warren T. Fox. He’d stared into the camera with a serious expression, as though he didn’t like having his picture taken. The other man was Fletcher, whose wide grin more than made up for Warren’s lack of one. They both wore work shirts and overalls. Fishing rods and tackle boxes lay at their feet, along with a string of fish. Trees ringed the area behind them.

“Is this you and Fletcher?” I asked.

Warren settled into his recliner and started rocking again. “It is. Taken a couple of months before he started up the Pork Pit. Last photo we ever took together.”

“Don’t you want to keep it then?”

Warren shrugged. “I don’t need a photo to remind me of Fletcher. Never have.”

He stared at the television, but I still spotted the sheen of moisture in his dark eyes. In that moment, I knew Warren missed Fletcher Lane as much as I did, even if he’d never admit it. And I knew the photo had to be one of his prized possessions. Because it was a symbol of their friendship, of their childhood growing up together, and all the good times and hopes and dreams they’d shared.