Before the Trench Is Filled

"Move the strobe three inches to the left," David said, not looking up from the trowel in his hand. "You’re blowing out the texture on the post hole."

I didn’t move the strobe. I adjusted the reflector instead, angling it to catch the last of the Orkney light before it dipped below the horizon. The trench was a grid of shadows and mud, smelling of wet peat and six weeks of stale coffee. It was 5:45 PM on a Tuesday in late October. The team had vanished on the ferry an hour ago, leaving me and David in Trench Four with a deadline at nine tomorrow morning.

David was the director. He was also the man who had corrected my lighting setup every single day for forty-two days. He wore a canvas jacket that had seen better decades, and his hands were permanently stained with the red clay of the island. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. His silence was heavier than the wind whipping off the Sound.