Steam hissed from the churning water at the bottom of the pit, rising in pale, curling tendrils toward the ceiling rafters.
Julian Vance held the Polaroid in both hands. His thumbs rested carefully on the unprinted white borders at the bottom, making sure the natural oils on his skin didn’t touch the exposed image.
The paper was soft, yielding, and warm from Dr. Hahn’s robe. It felt entirely different from the slick, cold, suffocating feel of the laminated placards hanging overhead.
“Look at that cap,” Mac Cole said softly. He wiped grease from his forehead with the back of his right arm, leaning over Julian’s shoulder.
“That municipal inspector’s cap is twice the size of your head, Jules. You’re practically swimming in it.”
“He wouldn’t take it off,” Dr. Beatrice Hahn said with a faint, tired smile. She sat in her oak wheelchair, watching Julian with warm eyes.
“Thomas brought him to the municipal archives that Friday afternoon. Julian marched through the filing rooms carrying a wooden ruler, checking the margins on every tax ledger. Thomas told everyone his son was already a senior auditor in training.”
Julian looked at his father’s face in the faded photograph.
