Friendswood by Rene Steinke

them arrest her for trespassing. Twenty minutes later, she located the place, the survey stakes constellated around her. She was sure. But now there was nothing to see but dried mud and flecks of weeds.
    She dug for an hour or so, until her biceps felt as if they were being stabbed by small knives, and she couldn’t lift the shovel anymore. The hole was only about a foot deep. She hadn’t hit anything solid yet. The crickets came out and chattered. Her feet felt heavy. Her body ached. Andshe’d have to excavate the whole field to be sure. Hell, she’d need a bulldozer.
    When she looked up, there was the black ring of an old tire, a scatter of stones, patches of brown grass. The air looked dusty now that it was dusk, and it was getting harder to see. Pain revolved around her arms. Her palms were chafed from gripping the wooden handle of the shovel, and there was a cut on her wrist. She stared at the turned dirt, got down on her knees, and reached into the hole, swiping away the dirt at the bottom, feeling around for the flat plane of plastic.
    She dug for another hour. She pitched the shovel into the ground, pushed it in deeper with her boot, and lifted up a shovel of dirt, two shovels of dirt, threw it behind her. She didn’t even worry anymore about what the toxic shit might do to her. It was too late for that. Either it got her or it didn’t. When the hole was the size of a small bathtub, she heard Jess’s voice in the sound of the digging,
Mom, Mom, Mom.

DEX

    A T THE GAME, Dex paced the sidelines. It helped to count steps, to push his hands into his jeans pockets beneath his loose jersey, because he didn’t like to show his nerves. He felt as if the crowd was looking down at him from the bleachers, staring a hole through him, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t him they were watching, but the green-lit field and Scott Gilt lofting a beautiful pass.
    Coach Salem called him over. “Go warm up Teak—I’ll send him in next quarter.”
    Dex signaled to Teak, and Teak came over so Dex could check the tape on his knees, and then Dex started him loosening up. It was the third game of the season, and they’d barely won the first two. He tried to watch the game out of one eye while he helped Teak get ready. Last week, he’d had to go and help Louder off the field twice, and ice down and wrap up a sprained knee on the sideline. He was always at the ready for injuries, and it kept him on edge, a tiny alarm clock in his chest that might at any moment go off. There was a totality to these nights too, the huge black sky, the unblinking white lights, the band’s horns and drums, which made the field seem heavy and fraught—the enormity of the past and the infinity of the future about to crash together any moment.
    Dex was aware that people thought a student trainer was only the sad shadow of a guy who couldn’t play football himself. But he actually likedriding back from games on the bus with the coaches, overhearing their decisions about drop-in-a-bucket plays and power sweeps and the Gilt Special. Coach Salem had invited him to be a trainer because he’d known Dex’s dad, and Dex liked the bristled sternness of Salem—even if it was hard to read his face.
    The Mustangs handily trounced the other team, and it felt like revenge or praise for the hurricane, the scoreboard flashing into higher and higher numbers under HOME , the band blaring, the crowd’s howls and applause almost like a living thing itself, about to take off and stomp down the bleachers and out into the roads.
    After the game, it was his job to account for the equipment in the field house, and he needed to tend to Hershel’s newly sprained ankle. Hershel said the whole time, “It’s okay, I got it,” then winced whenever he tried to put weight on it. “Thanks, man,” he said, after finally giving in and letting Dex retape it. He was one of the decent