A slow clap followed from the access road. “Bravo,” another man called.
The man above us huffed. “Enough,” he said. “Wipe it down, then we go.” His voice was big, his accent shaped in the Eastern Bloc.
The trapdoor whined as the man shifted his weight and he stopped short, as if aware for the first time of his footing. He must’ve leaned over. I heard panting at the gaps around the trapdoor, then a tentative knock, as if to test for solidity. Of course he found none.
We waited. We squeezed each other’s hand.
“It’s done,” the other man barked.
A long second passed, the universe choosing among outcomes, and the big man’s heel turned against the iron trapdoor. His footfalls clanged over the bridge and onto the gravel, ten steps, maybe a dozen. Vehicle doors opened and closed, and one truc
