Keith walked down to the dock instead. The stranger stood beside a metal crate stacked with drilling equipment, government stamps still visible on the sides. Real gear, not promises. The man extended his hand and smiled like he'd already won. Keith looked at the crate, then at the seaplane, then back at his crumbling guesthouse up the hill. He shook his head once. The stranger's smile faded. Keith turned and walked back up the hill, permit clock still ticking, account still empty, but the relic still his alone. The stranger called after him. Keith stopped but didn't turn around. Footsteps crossed the dock boards behind him. The man caught up and pulled something from his jacket. A map. Old paper, brown at the edges, circles in faded ink. Keith recognized the coastline. His chest went cold. The stranger tapped a marked spot with one finger. It was Keith's site. The real one. Not the false coordinates he'd leaked to everyone else. The man folded the map and held it between them like a card he'd been saving. Keith kept his face blank. He asked where the stranger got it. The man said it didn't matter. What mattered was that Keith wasn't the only one who knew. He could dig alone and race whoever else had the same map. Or he could accept the partnership and use their resources to get there first. The seaplane could have them on site by dawn. The equipment was already packed. The stranger tucked the map back into his jacket and waited. Keith looked at the blue and white plane bobbing in the water. He thought about eleven days. He thought about digging alone with shovels he couldn't afford while someone else flew in with a crew. The relic would cement his name forever, but only if he reached it first. He met the stranger's eyes and asked for the terms again. The man smiled. Keith didn't smile back, but he walked toward the crate and started checking the gear.