Our Progress Hardly Discernible

Tömör and Uncle spend the morning scampering among the deep-red rocks. The two like partners in crime, the one egging the other on to new heights. I find myself shadowing Billy and a redheaded woman out to their dig site, a nondescript patch of earth covered by a blue tarp. Cindy, a fellow graduate student, rolls back the tarp to reveal a pit about one meter by three meters across. Ain’t she a beauty, says Billy. He shines a flashlight in the hole.

I peer in but can’t see anything. Billy seems to sense my difficulty. Yeah, at this point she’s basically the same color as the rock, he says, running the light back and forth.

I get down on my hands and knees. I see something glint, a hint of bone. We call her Sally, says Cindy. She’s a female adolescent. We’re hoping she’s the most intact protoceratops ever unearthed.

In the pit the great smile gleams. Teeth that can rip flesh to shreds with a single bite, each tooth a blade. She’s probably seventy million years old, says Billy. Not that she looks a day over sixty million.

Because of the fossil’s position, they choose to excavate her in this pit manner. Our biggest enemy out here, besides the sun, says Cindy, is the sand. A good sandstorm can erase days, weeks, of work. It can also wear down the fossil. It’s like sandblasting, she says. What took millions and millions of years to form gets eroded in a couple of hours.

Plus it can kill you, adds Billy.

Yeah, there’s that, Cindy concedes.

I spend the morning helping in any way I can. Billy and Cindy work in close quarters down in the hole while I stay aboveground, carrying away the excess dirt. Because they already excavate the earth that doesn’t directly touch the specimen, the only thing left to do is the tough work of freeing the creature.

It’s slow going, our progress hardly discernible. From where we are situated on the hillside I cannot see the other teams. It’s like we’re the only three beings in existence. Within minutes of their crawling into the hole, I sense that there is something between Billy and Cindy, an energy that has yet to express itself. The way they bicker without looking at each other. Cindy telling Billy to watch the tenth rib, Billy reminding Cindy not to hog all the light. I scan the landscape for Saran and Mun, but the earth is deserted. I imagine the pleasure and the agony of spending so many hours so close to the one you secretly love, their shadow on you at all times.

By nine o’clock it’s hot. By ten it’s unbearable. Billy crawls out of the hole and erects a canopy on a set of aluminum poles. It helps, though the air is superheated and unmoving, like wet wool that clings to the skin.

At eleven we stop work. We plan to return to our dig later this afternoon when the sun is not so angry. For now, we head back to the base camp where many of the others are already gathered. There’s a buzz in the air, the camp blazing with excitement. What is it, asks Billy.

Uncle finds something of great interest. A mother dinosaur sitting on an intact nest of eggs. An image on a digital screen is passed around. The mother’s eye socket visible in the dirt.

Impressive, says Stevie.

Uncle places a hand on Tömör’s shoulder. It’s all thanks to my teacher, he says. Even under his numerous protective layers, the child’s happiness is evident.