Page 110 of Dream House
“How could I forget?”
He nods. “Went in right out of high school. Thought I’d work there the rest of my life.”
My stomach tightens like I’m bracing for a blow. “But you don’t anymore.”
“Did you hear about the mine collapse in 2016?”
I gasp.
Oh my God. That was years ago. I was pregnant with Maisy. Dashing from my salon station every twenty minutes to go toss my cookies in the bathroom.
But I do remember.
People died.
“It was on the news,” I mutter, mouth going dry.
He nods. “National news.” Lark says this with such authority, such recall, adrenaline makes my fingers go numb.
“You were there?” My voice sounds more like a squeaking hinge than anything human.
“Not in the passage that collapsed, but on site.”
Even though he’s right in front of me, my stomach still bottoms out at the thought of him on the edge of a disaster.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
The muscles around Lark’s mouth firm. His gaze downshifts to the table between us. “Me and the rest of the crew I was on were evacuated almost immediately. But my dad…”
I suck in a breath. But his dad’s okay, right? I know he goes to see his parents pretty often. Both parents. And all his little brothers and sisters. Why does he look so grim?
“My dad was in the tunnel that collapsed—”
“Jesus, Lark.”
He nods. “He was trapped for over thirty hours.” His voice dips to a register I’ve never heard. Lark swallows, and it’s obvious by the pallor around his eyes that even thinking about those thirty hours is living hell.
“None of us who got out left the site that whole time,” he says, his gaze far away. “People say that the buddies you work with are like family—” Lark shakes his head and brings his focus back to me. “But when it’s really your family…”
I’m nodding. Our eyes lock. Because I know exactly what he’s describing. This is something we share. A terrible something I’d rather not own and I’d rather he not know.
“Tyler was in a coma for forty-two hours.” Each one of those hours seemed like a year. “We didn’t know if he’d ever come out.”
“He was floating to the ceiling,” Maisy chimes in, never taking her eyes off Paw Patrol Marshall’s toy car.
I flick my gaze quickly to Lark. He doesn’t look surprised by this tidbit that I’ve heard a dozen times, but I read an apology in his eyes. As though he’s sorry we’ve let this serious topic unfold in front of her.
“She’s grown up with it,” I say with a shrug.
But as if she’s demonstrating just how mundane the topic of near-death experiences is, Maisy slides down from her chair.
“Marshall’s bored of this car,” she mutters. “He says we need to look for Skye.”
Skye, another Paw Patrol character, is in Maisy’s room. Along with a load of other cartoon toys. With her plastic dog in hand, she scampers across the kitchen floor and leaves the door swinging behind her.
Lark is watching me as though seeing something he hasn’t before. “I just can’t imagine,” he murmurs.
“Can’t imagine what?”
