FROM THE CONFISCATED JOURNAL
OF DEBORAH PHINNEY:

When I arrive at the site of the desert cave, Darren and all the officers are trying to send me away. I become hysterical and start shouting. I'm asking why they have guns; I'm asking what's down there, what is that thing plastered all over every news station on television? Before I can complete my hysterics, I hear my baby.

From down in the hole I hear Joseph's voice. Soaked in reverb and drifting like a ghost, Joseph's voice asks, "Mommy?" and I completely lose it. I'm not sure what I think I'm doing, but I'm half ready to dive into that hole. Enveloped in a muffle, as if under a pillow, I hear the voices of the officers—"Mrs. Phinney! Mrs. Phinney please calm down! Mrs. Phinney we're going to find your son!"—and everything is moving so slowly. Darren seizes me by my shoulders and shakes me from my lunacy.

"I'm going to get him, Deb. I'm going to get our boy right this second." And his eyes are on fire and he's covered in all sorts of cave diving tools. The camera on his helmet stares at me with its cycloptic, unblinking eye.

"I'm not coming out without our boy," he vows, and my heart slows for the first time.

The next forty-five minutes are like crawling through the desert sand on my hands and knees. My lungs feel like they're full of fluid, and breathing becomes a tremendous labor. Next to me, the chief of police's voice is buzzing through a walkie-talkie in the hand of another officer. Something is in his voice, some discrepancy that I can't place. Footsteps echoing between the rock walls, endless foot steps. And me, praying at the mouth of this abyss, praying that each footstep will bring them closer to my Joseph. While I'm shoulder-deep in my pleas to God, from the walkie-talkie, the footsteps suddenly stop.

I hear my husband's voice say "Jesus Christ," and my heart stops. On the surface, surrounded by cops and cave experts, we hear a voice not belonging to any of the three men below us. The fourth voice, it comes gliding and guttural, something like a roar but also like a dove. We all hear the fourth voice say, "Listen." In the same instant, we hear the cracking whip sound of a rifle through the walkie-talkie coupled with the soft explosion under our feet. The walkie-talkie crackles in and out with the voice of the chief ordering his men out, retreat, make a run for it. The cables feeding them into the hole like industrial umbilical cords come sucking backward into the machinery as the men work to retrieve the team from within the cavern.

The video collected from all three helmet cameras leaves the entire surface team, as well as the three spelunkers, speechless. The chief turns to a man who stares slack-jawed at the monitor, cowboy hat casting a shadow over his aviator glasses. The man's beard flutters sideways, wind-swept, sand sticking in it.

"Well?" the chief barks in the bearded man's ear. "Want to tell me what we're looking at?" The man looks at the chief, flabbergasted, and back at the monitor where they're rewinding the tape.

"I... I'm not sure." the bearded man stammers, eyes glued to the screen.

"You're not sure?" the chief growls. "You want to tell me what reason it is that you're here, then?" he suddenly shouts, cutting through the clamor of all the mumbling experts.

"I don't know!" the bearded man shouts back, sounding more flustered than frustrated. "Chindesaurus fossils were discovered southwest of here... There are... similarities..."

"Fossils?" the chief spits. "Similarities? Doc, maybe you missed the tape, but I'm not asking about a dried-up set of bones. I want to know why Officer Phinney just opened fire on a ten-foot talking lizard."

"The voice might have come from somewhere else; we all heard several—"

"Oh for God's sake, I saw the thing open its ugly mouth and speak. Even gestured at us." The chief mocks the creature's gesture with one hand and uses the other to point at his effort.

"It isn't anything I've ever seen... Officer," the doctor grumbles angrily.

"Well..." The chief sighs, looking down in the hole. "That makes two of us."

I walk over to my husband, who is leaned down, squinting blankly at the playback monitor, watching the footage over and over again. On the screen, the creature keeps saying, "Listen, Listen, Listen..."

"Darren." I say, "Darren, what about Joseph? What about our little boy?"