The subterranean access hatch in the basement had been permanently decommissioned as an extraction point; the maintenance portal had been sealed in forty tons of reinforced marine aggregate, topped by an un-carved slab of Barre granite bearing my grandfather’s naval transit insignia.
On the broad, covered cedar back deck overlooking the rolling hills where the prairie grasses glided clean, smooth, and free toward the horizon…
Sitting at a long twelve-foot reclaimed chestnut trestle table with an open set of regional land surveys and two steaming ceramic mugs of dark-roast chicory coffee…
Was Clara Bennett.
I was thirty-four now.
My nervous system had completely healed; the chemical burns had faded into memory, replaced by the deep, un-shakable strength of an un-broken name.
I wore an unadorned cream-colored linen work shirt, comfortable dark denim trousers with copper rivets, and clean leather field boots. My face was radiant, free of the exhaustion and synthetic fog that had shadowed my eyes during those eleven months of manipulation.
