Page 40 of Exchanged

He turns and snaps a photo of the stairway to nowhere, stone leading into the burning autumn trees.

He faces me. “This is incredible. How did you figure out how to get in here?”

“You said it yourself: There’s not a lot to do in Irontown. So one summer, some friends and I decided we wanted to find a way in. It didn’t take long.” I think about the summer after seventh grade, how a group of us spent entire days wandering these streets, making up stories about the people who once lived here.

Garrett and I start walking. He takes shots of the street and staircases from different angles. “It’s probably a little late to ask this, but should we be concerned about these being caving grounds?”

“I’m pretty sure the streets are safe,” I say. “But there are some tunnels under the woods over there. I was walking along once and almost fell into a hole in the ground. In the winter, the snow covers them, and it’s impossible to tell where they are. Like a minefield.”

He looks impressed, so I lead him up a grizzled road that turns into a narrow ravine. Red ore-filled walls of rock press in on either side, tree branches meeting in a tangle overhead. The mist swirls heavier here, and we walk uphill for several minutes until the road burrows into the rock face. It’s a primitive tunnel, cut directly into the stone. A rusting wire barrier stretches across the opening, but part of it disintegrated years ago, leaving a space large enough for us to crawl through.

“I think they used this tunnel to cart ore,” I say, “so the ground underneath should be stable.”

Garrett peers into the tunnel. “What about the roof?”

“Less sure about that.”

“Awesome.”

We bend our bodies through the wire fencing and step into the tunnel. It’s not long, and by the time the light behind us fades, we can already see the light on the other side. The air hangs damp and cold here, like we’re in a stony throat.

When we exit the tunnel, the path ends at a stark drop-off, plummeting to a water-filled basin below. We’re standing midway up an old mine shaft, rough walls stretching around and above and below. It’s wide enough, with trees circling the opening overhead, that this entire pit seems almost natural, like an enclosed chasm simply dug itself into the earth. In the murky water below, twisted barbed wire and rusting steel beams and unidentifiable machines hover under the surface.

“How deep?” Garrett breathes.

“I don’t know. These old mine shafts went down hundreds of feet, but this one could have been sealed.”

“It’s like you could lose yourself in here,” Garrett says, his voice filled with the awe of someone standing in the nave of a European cathedral.

In the fading afternoon light, we seat ourselves on the ledge, our feet dangling over the side.

“A girl drowned here,” I say. “Years ago. This pit had been abandoned even before the Caving Grounds were closed off, and anyone could just walk up the road and come here. One day, people heard a girl screaming, heard her voice echoing all over town, and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Turns out sound travels weirdly when you’re in this pit; it amplifies in strange ways. By the time they found her, it was too late.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “How long has this area been fenced off?”

“Since the 1950s.”

“So that story has been passed down for decades?”

I nod.

“I don’t believe you about the girl.” He cups his hands and makes a hooting sound, which echoes eerily off the walls. “But I’d buy the thing about the sound. Maybe you should bring your clarinet here to practice sometime.”

“Oboe,” I correct. “I play the—” Then I break off, noticing the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been messing with me for a month.”

His grin has turned into a full smile. “Longer. I knew it was an oboe when I saw it in your room on my first day here.” He points at himself. “This guy paid enough attention in elementary music class to know the difference between an oboe and a clarinet.”

“I’ve been messing with you, too,” I say. “I totally understand the difference between a tight end and a wide receiver.”

He bumps me with his shoulder. “Of course you do. From all that Madden you play.” A beat passes, and then his face turns serious. “Is that what you really want to go to college for? Music?” He asks the question with complete sincerity, like there isn’t a doubt in his mind that this could be my future. Like someone from a family that can afford to bet on uncertainties.

“I don’t want to end up working in a coffee shop for the rest of my life,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke instead of an admission of defeat.

“But you’re good.”

“Good isn’t enough in the music world. You have to be fantastic to make any money, let alone enough to live on. And I definitely don’t want to teach.”

“What about all the composing you do?”