passed a side tunnel blocked by a cave-in. A hard hat lay crushed beneath a slab, its name sticker still visible.
T. RUSK
She whispered, “I’m sorry,” and kept moving.
The blue cable ended at a steel door.
The door had no handle.
Only a keypad, dead and dark, and another eagle-stamped lock beneath it.
The brass key turned again.
Inside, the records room waited like a lung holding its breath.
Rows of filing cabinets lined the walls.
A table sat in the center.
On the table was a battery
