“This floor looks like dirt everywhere,” he said, “but it’s not. I remember when we built it.” He picked up the shovel. “I think the briefcase might be buried. I have to try.”

“Okay.”

“I have to keep trying.”

He had a thought and turned to the door, and there he picked up the ice axe. He handed her the shovel. “If you don’t want to dig, it’s okay.”

“I’ll dig.”

He tried where the couch had been first. He raised the ice axe and began to chop the hard earth. Lift, slash. Dig. He dug and kept digging. Smack of the axe striking dirt. The memories claiming him. The shovel, the axe. She is under the snow. A few feet away.

Dig.

But there was nothing. He pushed the bookcase away from the wall. Cold burning his skin. Pain in his side. Dig. You have to keep going.

After a while, he stood in a hole maybe a couple of feet deep. He looked at Ava. She’d stopped and was holding the shovel.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just rest a minute.”

He sat on the rim of the hole. Darkness closing in. The broken floor. Black earth. There in the hole he saw pale plywood. He held the candle closer.

A wooden lid.

He shoved the dirt away and dug again until he exposed the top of a crate. He jammed the claw of the hammer under the lid and pried the nails up. Chunks of earth fell in. He took the candle from Ava and put it close.

“Look,” he said.

He reached in and gripped the handle and dragged out the briefcase.

She stared, her eyes wide.

Blue vinyl covered in grime. Two buckles. A brass latch.

Jack’s head felt light. This ragged heart. He was about to get up when, behind them, he heard metal scrape. Very softly.

Then the barn door opened.

Coming through the door was one of the drug runners. The boy with the vivid eyes. The bandana around his neck. They all froze.

At that moment, Jack realized that the boy would not be alone. He would turn around. He would call for the others. And when he did, they would come, and it would all be over, and they would die. Too late to get back to Matty. Too late to do anything.

“Don’t turn around,” Jack said, gripping the hammer. “Just keep coming in.”

Ansel didn’t move. A pistol was tucked in his belt. Ava was walking backward toward the window and holding the candle. Flickering light. The briefcase stood there on the dirt. Jack picked it up. “Close the door,” he said. “Don’t turn around.”

Ansel just gazed at Jack. Those dark eyes. His curling hair.

“Take the gun out of your belt and drop it,” Jack said.

He didn’t. He shook his head and glanced at the briefcase.