DAVE
Blood Working
The abandoned quarry outside Lexington carries death in its water—seventeen workers drowned in the 1982 collapse, their bones dissolved but their terror crystallized in limestone walls. October wind cuts across the black surface, bringing diesel exhaust from the highway and something older, the mineral taste of violence that never quite washes clean. I watch my siblings arrive in separate vehicles, maintaining careful distances like predators forced to share territory.
Maxwell's Bentley purrs to a stop first, my eldest brother emerging with barely contained fury in every movement. The working requires all Westwood blood—well, almost all. Harrison's Tesla follows, nervous energy making him check his phone obsessively—probably calculating how much this delay impacts his
