My eyes linger on his fingers as he licks butter and jam away. Hands carved for work, yet with a dexterity I can only describe as graceful.
“Mind passing me the bread?” I ask, my eyes meeting his.
The air seems to stop, like my breath, as he stretches an arm. A vibration hums through the plate. Soft. Alive. My pulse jumps when his fingers brush mine.
I grab a slice of bread, then my butter knife, feeling the faint hum in the metal. It’s in the table, too, for one lingering second before it fades.
“Cattle ready to go up to the north pasture. How about yours?” Grandpa asks.
“Yep,” he murmurs, tearing his eyes from me. “Thinking about heading up early to hold up with them.”
“Fall and winter. Lonely season that’d be.”
Ash shrugs, looks everywhere but at me. “Lonely’s better.”
I half-listen to the discussion of cattle and brands, mended fences and spring inoculations. The conversation flows grumbly and male until Grandma smiles from ear-to-ear bragging, “Jo’s here to study rock art.”
“Petroglyph sequences,” I correct.
Ash’s fork pauses midair. “Sequences. What do you mean? Like language?” His tone is neutral but watchful, the question surprising even me.
“Language or proto-language,” I clarify. “Structured repetition implies communication intent.”
“Communication with who?”
There’s something guarded in the question.
Not curiosity. Concern.
I’ve seen that look before. Landowners who don’t want surveyors near property lines. Ranchers who stiffen at the word federal.
If cultural artifacts are documented on private land, there are reviews. Protections. Sometimes repatriation claims. Oversight. Regulation.
It’s clear. Ash doesn’t like the idea of academics crawling across the foothills and inviting paperwork into his life. Neither does Grandpa by the scrunch of his forehead.
The realization ignites my determination.
“Anyone,” I answer easily. “Themselves. Future generations. Us.”
He studies the table instead of me. That’s when it hits me again.
He doesn’t look older. He looks fixed.
He hasn’t aged. Not in any measurable way. Not like my grandparents and me.
Even under dining room light, his skin looks sun-worn but not time worn.
Statistically improbable.
Possible? Yes.
Probable? No.
I remind myself, there are explanations. There arealwaysexplanations.
“NAGPRA, right?” I snort to my mild mortification.
“Nag what?” he asks, brows furrowing.
