Chapter 8
CALVIN
It’s the first full day at the site, and I’m already losing my mind.
Not visibly. I’m keeping it together on the surface. I’m good like that. Professional, composed, asking reasonable questions. But inside, I’m wound so tight I might snap.
It’s barely past noon, and the heat is oppressive. Even under the shade of the work tent’s awning, the temperature has to be over a hundred degrees. Everyone is moving slowly, deliberately, conserving energy. Smart, I know. Practical.
But watching Georgia and her team carefully brush away sand grain by grain, photograph every square inch, document every microscopic finding… it’s torture.
“What about this section?” I ask, pointing to an area on the map spread across the work table. “The preliminary survey showed structural anomalies here. Shouldn’t we focus there?”
Georgia doesn’t look up from the pottery shard she’s examining. “We will. After we finish the survey of section A.”
“How long will that take?”
“As long as it takes,” she says without skipping a beat, as if she knew my question was coming.
I grit my teeth.
Omar, one of the technicians, glances between us and diplomatically excuses himself after muttering something about getting more supplies.
“Mr. Aarons,” Georgia says, finally setting down the pottery and looking at me. “I understand you’re anxious to find something. But archaeology is methodical. We can’t skip steps.”
“I’m not asking you to skip steps. I’m asking about prioritization.”
“And I’m telling you that the priority is doing this correctly.” She stands, wiping dust from her hands. “Can we talk? Privately?”
That can’t be good.
We step away from the work tent, walking a short distance into the desert, where the others can’t overhear. The sun beats down mercilessly, and I can feel sweat already soaking through my shirt.
Georgia crosses her arms, squinting at me in the bright light. “You’re breathing down my neck.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re hovering. You’ve asked me six questions in the last hour about timeline and focus and priorities. You’ve questioned three of my decisions about excavation protocol. And you keep looking at your watch like you’re waiting for something to happen right now.”
“I’m invested in this project.”
“I know you are. But I need space to work. My team needs space to work. And you constantly questioning every decision is…” She pauses, clearly choosing her words carefully. “It’s not helpful.”
The criticism stings, even delivered gently.
“This is my project,” I say, hearing the defensiveness in my own voice. “My grandmother’s legacy. I have a right to be involved.”
“You do. Absolutely. But there’s a difference between being involved and micromanaging. Right now, you’re doing the latter.”
“So, what do you want me to do? Just sit in my tent and wait for updates?”
“That would be better than hovering, yes.” She softens slightly.
“Look, I get it. You want results. You want to find something significant. But this could take months or years. We might not find anything notable other than what we already have. That’s the reality of archaeology.
It’s slow. It’s painstaking. And it requires patience. ”
There’s that word again. Patience.
“You hired me to do a job,” she says softly, “and I’m doing it. Please trust that.”
“I’ll give you more space,” I say stiffly.
“Thank you.” She bites her bottom lip and smiles softly.
I notice the sheen across her face, the way her cheeks are flushed, how her linen shirt sticks to her curves, the sweat dripping down her neck, and I have a sudden reaction that is very, very unprofessional.
Clearing my throat, I quickly avert my gaze before she notices me staring.
If she notices the way I just ogled her, she acts like she doesn’t. She only turns to head back to the work tent.
Suddenly, she pauses and looks back at me. “For what it’s worth, what we’re finding, the pottery shards, the stone fragments, it’s all consistent with a significant structure. Henry’s theories are holding up. But we need time to prove it definitively.”
It’s an olive branch, and I should take it. Should thank her for the reassurance. Should acknowledge that she’s doing her job well.
Instead, I just nod and watch her walk away.
I stand there in the desert heat, feeling useless and frustrated and angry at myself for feeling useless and frustrated.
She’s right. I know she’s right. But knowing it doesn’t make it easier to step back, to relinquish control, to just…
wait. Coming here might have been a bad idea.
With the terrible internet, I can barely get any work done on my businesses back home.
The thought of missing the opportunity to be here was unbearable, though.
When I return to the main area of camp, Lois is sitting in a folding chair in the shade outside Georgia’s tent, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard, while Ella plays with blocks in a playpen.
Lois doesn’t look well. Her face is flushed, and even from a distance, I can see she’s sweating heavily.
I walk over. “Lois? Are you all right?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, fine, dear. Just this heat. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
My chest tightens. She reminds me a bit of my grandmother. Kind but forthright. Positive. “Have you been drinking water?” I ask.
“Yes, yes. Fatima brought me a whole bottle. I’m just tired. The time change, you know. And the sun here is much stronger than back home.”
Ella babbles something and holds up a block triumphantly. “Ba!”
“Yes, El, very good,” Lois says, but her voice sounds thin.
“Maybe you should rest inside the tent,” I suggest. “It’s cooler.”
“Perhaps in a bit. The little one likes being outside where she can see everything.”
As if to prove the point, Ella walks awkwardly to the edge of the playpen and points at something in the distance. “Mama?”
“Mama’s working, sweetheart. She’ll be back soon.”
I should leave. Go find something productive to do that doesn’t involve hovering over Georgia’s excavation. But I find myself staying longer. “Do you need anything? Food? I could ask Fatima—”
“You’re sweet to worry, but I’m fine. Just old and unaccustomed to desert living.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You go on. I’m sure you have important things to do.”
Important things. Right.
I wander back toward the work tent, then stop myself. Georgia asked for space. I need to give it to her.
Instead, I head to my own tent and force myself to sit at my laptop.
There’s work I can do. Emails to answer, business matters that can’t be put on hold just because I’m in the desert.
My board members need updates. My father probably has more complaints about the laundromat deal.
And with the terrible internet, there’s no telling how long it will take just to send one message.
But I can’t focus. My eyes keep drifting to the tent entrance, to the slice of camp visible beyond it. The work tent where Georgia is laboring. The excavation site where her team is carefully uncovering the past.
While I sit here. Useless.
Time crawls by, and I force myself to work through my task list. The team could have a huge discovery at any moment, I remind myself, and that will make this all worth it.
It’s late afternoon when I emerge from my tent, restless and frustrated. The heat has barely diminished. If anything, the sun feels more intense, lower in the sky but somehow more direct.
I find most of the team gathered near the excavation site. Georgia has her team spread out across the area, and they’re having what looks like a strategic discussion. Maps are unfurled on a folding table someone has dragged out from the work tent. Everyone is pointing, debating, discussing.
This is good. This is progress. Planning the next phase of excavation.
I walk over, careful to keep my distance, to not hover. Just observe.
“…structural indicators suggest the main chamber would be here,” Yasmin is saying, pointing to a section of the map. “But the pottery distribution implies regular activity further west.”
“Ritual deposits?” Omar suggests.
“Possibly. Or domestic areas. Storage.”
Georgia is listening intently, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her shirt dusty and sweat-stained. She looks completely in her element.
I’m about to take a few steps back, not wanting to feel like I’m hovering again, when I notice movement in my peripheral vision.
Lois, walking slowly toward our group. She’s still flushed, still fanning herself, but now she’s also swaying slightly.
“Georgia, dear,” she calls out, her voice weaker than before. “I think I need to…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
Her knees buckle, the piece of cardboard falls from her hand, and she crumples to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.