Except Calvin enters a moment later, takes a plate, and sits at the far end of the table from everyone else, his attention fixed on his phone despite the terrible internet connection—which convinces me that half of the time he’s only looking at that phone in order to avoid human contact.
As if he feels me watching him, he suddenly looks up. Our eyes meet briefly across the tent, and I make sure that I’m the one who looks away first.
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 ismyproject,” 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.
