“Oh God,” Ripley says as the load operator on the ground fusses with steel cables. If the crew didn’t have to stand safely out of the wash of the rotors, she’d dart forward and tell the pilot one more time to be careful, be gentle, please don’t break it.
They’ve done everything they can. They’ve pedestaled Beast so finely, a strong wind could blow him over. Plastered him into a gigantic, amorphous ball braced with lumber above and below.
Still, Ripley can’t unsee the videos of Borealopelta’s extraction. The bracing failed, the plaster broke, and the fossil shattered right out of the bottom of the field jacket. It took seven thousand hours to put it back together.
The camera operator caught a lot of grown-ass paleontologists crying that day.
Cara laces her fingers with Ripley’s and bends their clasped hands up to face level, like this is the grand finale of the Miss America competition. “I’m going to throw up,” she shouts over the thumping noise.
“We’re all going to throw up,” Ripley screams back. James paces at the edge of the wash; Griff’s hammering a lid on the bucket of plaster he’ll use to seal the field jacket. Jordin bailed out ten minutes ago with a pinched “I can’t watch.” Matteo went with her, although not without a few glances over his shoulder.
“Those two seem fine.” Cara indicates Fiona and Finn, who’ve applied steampunk goggles over their Amelia Earhart aviator caps. They tap their travel mugs together, then take deep sips that suggest whatever’s inside is the opposite of coffee.
“At least they’ve forgiven each other,” Ripley yells, but it’s lost in the rising whine of the engine as the bird starts to lift.
At first, nothing happens.Slow, slow, slow, slow, slow,she mouths, hoping the pilot can read lips. All the rushing, all the weeks of deadline panic have come down to this. A hundred million years of waiting, and the next minute will literally make or break this fossil.
The ground jolts as the pedestal cracks, and Cara’s screaming, and Ripley is too. Cara swipes her face with their clasped fingers, wetting the back of Ripley’s hand.
Beast rises up like he’s riding a thermal. He floats gently on his steel leash, moving to hover over the crate Griffin made. “Almost there,” Ripley whispers into the wind as he sways back and forth, the load operator waiting to guide him down. “Stay on target.”
She’s not sure whether she feels the touchdown in her body or her heart, but the moment the cable goes slack, she feels like the weight of the world is safely contained in a homemade wooden box.
Ripley’s brain goes blank. Her head might float away, like a balloon that’s slipped its string.
Cara lifts her up in a rib-cracking hug and shakes her untilshe thinks her boots are going to fall off. “We did it, we did it, wefucking did it,” she’s screaming, her voice growing muffled and faint.
The world goes tingly, then dark. Ripley’s on the ground with her head between her knees. James’s body is wrapped around her, one of his hands supporting her forehead. The thunder of the helicopter has moved far enough away that she can hear James’s rough “Give her space” and Cara’s guilty “I only bounced her alittle.”
“I’m okay,” she manages. She sends a searching hand in the direction of Cara’s voice, pawing at the air.
Cara grabs hold immediately, the iron-hard calluses under her fingers lining up along the edge of Ripley’s palm like buttons on a shirt. “Damn, Rip. You scared me.”
“Went down like a sack of laundry,” Griff says.
“Almostwent down,” James corrects him with stern satisfaction.
“And it’s potatoes,” Cara adds. “Not laundry.”
“She didn’t look much like potatoes,” Griff says doubtfully. “She was limp, like wet sheets.” He demonstrates with rolled-back eyes and spaghetti limbs.
The load operator jogs up. “Anyone want to check the crate before we go?”
“Beast,” Ripley says urgently, remembering.
James’s knees tighten around her hips. “He’s fine. Don’t get up yet.”
“I’ll go check him, but he’s okay, Rip. We’re okay,” Cara says. Ripley’s never heard anything but steadiness or snark in her friend’s voice. Strangely enough, it’s the hint of tears underWe’re okaythat has hope rustling its feathers in her heart.
Maybe she’s really okay this time. Maybe they all are.
By sundown, Clever Girl has been transformed into a sparkling piece of magic in the middle of the prairie.
Geraldine rumbles into camp with a flatbed full of red-and-white Coleman coolers. She’s wearing her sunset-orange skirt with the black, gold, and green ribbons, which she only wears on important occasions. Though she’s plenty strong enough to set up the steel tubs, she amuses herself making James and Griffin fill them with ice and drinks. Cara gets to work with the barbecue, piling bratwursts and vegan hot dogs onto the grill.
Jordin and Matteo string battery-powered fairy lights into a crisscrossing canopy, while Finn and Fiona sync everyone’s portable speakers into a surprisingly excellent sound system for their playlist of Alphabet classics.
James denies having anything to do with the town car that arrives bearing a case of French champagne. “You’re a rotten liar, Professor,” Ripley says, shaking her head as he presses the first bottle into her hands. She pops the cork without spilling a drop, but Cara reaches over, grabs the bottle, and shakes it until everyone’s covered with sparkling amber drops.
