Ash sits at the edge of the hole, legs dangling over the side. The whistle hangs cold against his chest. He counts the cracks that spider out from the rim — forty-three so far, though two more appeared this morning. His parents said stay, so he stays. The sun moves but he doesn't track it anymore. He drew the map in the sand behind him, using a stick to scratch lines that connect each crack. X marks the ones that go deeper than his arm can reach. The pattern spreads wider every day, so he redraws the edges. The protocol is simple: document everything, wait for them to come back, follow instructions exactly. The whistle's leather strap has worn a groove into his neck. He doesn't blow it anymore — three times was enough, like they taught him. Now he just holds it sometimes, feeling the rust flake onto his fingers. The hole doesn't change much. Just gets darker when he looks down. A crack splits under his left foot with a sound like breaking ice. Ash pulls his leg back and watches a new line snake toward his map, cutting straight through the center. He picks up his stick. The map needs fixing again, and his parents will want to see it when they climb out.

Ash is redrawing the deepest crack when he hears footsteps behind him. Not the whisper of sand shifting in wind, but the crunch of boots. He doesn't turn around. His parents taught him to finish what he starts, and the map still needs the new crack marked properly. The footsteps stop close enough that a shadow falls across his work. A hand appears in his vision, offering water in a dented canteen. Ash ignores it and scratches another X into the sand where his stick fell earlier — right at the rim where the ground gave way under his foot. The pattern spreads from the hole like a perfect circle now, each crack reaching outward in rays. Someone planted sticks in a ring around the edge, marking a boundary he's supposed to respect. He pulled them all out this morning. "You're too close." Gen's voice sounds tired, like she's said this before. She crouches beside him and points toward two towers in the distance, their rusted frames leaning together. "I set up shelter there. Real walls. A roof. You keep coming back here." Ash sets down his drawing stick and looks at her directly for the first time. "They told me to wait where they left me." He picks up the stick that marks his exact position — the one he replanted at the rim after the ground cracked. "This is where." Gen reaches for his shoulder but he steps backward, and the edge crumbles under his heel. Her hand shoots out and catches his wrist, yanking him forward onto solid ground. He lands hard on his knees, and she doesn't let go. The stick tumbles into the hole without a sound. Ash watches it disappear and feels something unlock in his chest — not relief, but a sharp and sudden clarity. He can't mark the spot anymore. He doesn't know exactly where they left him. The map is wrong now, and he can't fix it. Gen is still holding his wrist, waiting. He looks at the hole, then at the towers behind her, then back at the empty space where his marker used to be. "Just tonight," he says. Gen nods and helps him stand, and they walk toward the towers together, leaving the hole behind.