Though they rarely spoke, Rose really liked Martin. Well, not in that way, but in nearly every other way. They were kindred spirits and library roommates. The dorky, awkward loner got a full scholarship to Yale and would run even farther away from this town than she would.

Martin checked his connection to the monitor and started without fanfare. “Martin Peters.”

He clicked. The photo of a cave opening onto a lake popped up.

Rose gasped.

In the photo, the morning sun streaked through the trees and bounced off the flat surface of the water. The mouth of the cavern sucked the mist inside.

Rose had seen many images of that cave on Hidden Star Lake. She had been inside a few times herself, but never had she seen a picture that vivid, that alive.

“The subterranean region at Hidden Star Lake, known as Elemento by the local indigenous tribe, the Primbobi, is home to hundreds of paintings.” He clicked.

As artistic as the previous one, the next photo took the viewer into the mouth of the cave. Light danced off the rocky walls. He clicked again, and the first famous cave painting popped up. The massive mural told the story of a buffalo hunt as the tribe, on horses, chased a herd past a stunning representation of Starslope Hill. Rose noted the crop circles on top of the slope.

Don’t worry, Martin, I’ve got that covered.

“There are three tunnels that divert off the main entrance,” Martin said. “Each one of those has another three, and all of those another three. There are an estimated forty-seven miles of passages down there. And everyone who has journeyed claims that there are murals on every wall. No one knows where they lead or even how many paintings there are. Legend has it that the Primbobi painted scenes from their daily lives in an attempt to awaken the Ancients. Whether they succeeded or not is anyone’s guess, but they left a painted labyrinth with seemingly no end.”

He hit return again and again.

One painting after another flashed by, documenting the lives of the Primbobi in incredible detail and stunning color. Rose estimated that it had taken him weeks, perhaps months, to take these artistic photos, each one capturing a work that must have taken months or years to complete. Art capturing art capturing life.

Rose was breathless by the time the screen turned black.

“That is as far as I could journey into the caves. What you find down there is that the dizzying beauty of the creation disorients you. It makes you forget where you are. Overall, I was underground for forty-seven different days, spanning six months. I was careful to make my way in so I could still find my way out each time. But I left nothing behind. I didn’t want to contaminate the environment and let anyone in the future think that something I left was part of that culture. Impossible to say for sure”—before he finished the last sentence, Martin took the first strides to his seat—“but it seems there is much else to explore under Beckinfield.”

Rose started the applause, and the class picked up on it.

When the clapping died down, Ms. Evans asked a single question. “Martin, did you take all those pictures, or did you find them online?”

“I took them all, Ms. Evans.”

“Thank you.”

The blonde in the letter jacket craned her head at Martin in the front row. “Those photos were incredible. You crushed it.”

Rose smiled for the first time of the day when Martin blushed. Had Lisa Sibbisson ever spoken to him before?

“Thank you,” Martin replied simply.

Kicker bellowed from his seat, “And my speech wasn’t incredible, babe?”

Lisa cocked her head, her long ponytail sweeping to the side. “Your speech was very good, too, Kicker.”

Kicker did an impersonation of Martin. “Thank you. Live long and prosper.”

Jerk.

The voice of her teacher interrupted her thoughts to put sheer terror in Rose’s mind.

“Rose Branter, you’re up.”

The energy in the History classroom seemed to shift with dread. Her classmates knew the train wreck to come.

Rose’s mind flooded with panic. She took deep breaths as her tongue worked the inside of her dry mouth.

Alexa grabbed her hand. “You’re gonna be fantastic.”

But Rose sat there. She willed her legs to move.

“Rose?” her teacher said again.

She hyperventilated, and her eyes teared up. People were going to gawk at her. She had to push through because she couldn’t graduate without this final report.

Putting her hands on the desk, she pressed up, hoping her leg muscles would kick in. They did, barely. And she started her annual walk of terror up the aisle. Please don’t stare at me. Much of the class turned away. But those who truly didn’t like her, who regularly mocked her, loaded up on ammunition on days like this.

As she took one fateful step after another to the edge of the plank leading to the front of the room, her knees weakened. Please, nobody look at me.

The ringing in her ears nearly blocked the encouraging words of her teacher. “It’s going to be okay, Rose. You can do it.”

She stared at the blank screen ahead of her.

Next, she would have to turn around and face the firing squad. They were all waiting to judge. To laugh.

Battling to control her breathing, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned.

And THERE THEY WERE. All those people. So many. They all hated her. She was ugly and stupid. No one would ever love her, and they all knew it.

She looked down at the carpet, but something happened. Movement among the class. Something pressed into her hand.

“Rose,” her teacher said, “you’re going to need your iPad.”

She had left it on her desk. The tormentors must have handed the tablet, person by person, up the aisle to reach her. She fought to get at least two words out. If nothing else, perhaps it might garner her enough to qualify as her speech.

“Thank you,” she said to her teacher.

She studied the tool in her hand. Holding something she could control, something she had power over, gave her a flash of comfort. If she could focus on that, she might survive the next five minutes. Maybe, just maybe, she could prompt them to pay attention to the screen and not her.

She hit the first button and waited. Nothing happened.

Rose contemplated the blank monitor. Again, the panic began setting in. Her breaths shortened and deepened. A presence arrived next to her.

Alexa punched the key on her iPad to sync it. Rose’s eyes went to her savior, filled with gratitude.

“Go, Rose,” Alexa whispered with encouragement and bounced to her seat.

Without waiting a moment longer, Rose pressed the arrow button.

The image of Starslope Hill appeared on the screen behind her.

“Today, I want to talk about Destiny Crest,” her words came out as a mumble. She stopped. She went through this every year. So, without being told, she started again and raised her voice.

“Today, I want to talk about Destiny Crest.”

She read the text on the deck of her iPad with little emotion, but at least people would hear her.

“More specifically, the significance of the reappearing crop circles.”

She pressed the button. A recent color aerial image spanning the entire top of the slope appeared on the screen. The top was flat as if sheared off and contained towering crops in the form of a massive circle surrounding an elaborate series of overlapping shapes: hexagonal, triangular, and circular.

She continued to recite her written words dryly. “I had initially planned on doing this as my very first Legends of Beckinfield report in the sixth grade. That is when I began my research with this photo.”

Another photo, taken ten years before, filled the monitor. The image, though shot from a different angle, looked the same.

“As you can guess, during the winter, these crops freeze and die.”

An image of the snow-covered crest appeared.

“Yet, every spring, they return the same way.”

Another image of the patterns popped up.

“This was for the report I was going to do for seventh grade. This one for eighth grade.”

A different photo of the same image came up. “It was at that point, at year three of my study, that I decided to wait until I was a senior to present this.”

A series of images of the crop patterns flashed past, stopping with a black-and-white photo dated 1933.

“This is the first photo of the area I found, taken from above. All these photos seem identical, right? I thought so, too. But I spent a bit of time looking at them.”

A graph popped up, overlaying on top of the black-and-white photo. Hundreds of detailed scribbled measurements and notations covered the image.

“Take a close look at quadrant C7.”

The image zoomed in.

“Note the squiggle.”

A color photo of the area appeared. Within the massive outer circle, a curly-cue shape augmented a small triangle.

“It’s not there eight years later.”

Another image showed the same area without the squiggle.

“But it was back last year. These little anomalies appear throughout the massive patterns.”

She flashed through multiple quadrants over different years. Hand-drawn circles highlighted the subtle differences.

“And once I aligned all the photos over the last years, if you examine the entire area in chronological order…it becomes nearly alive.”

She pressed play, and the image came to life. The outer circle remained constant, but the formation inside danced like an animated creature.

Rose studied the screen herself, transfixed. But something new struck her. Not a creature. The image in the middle squirmed back and forth to repeatedly form two symbols she had seen before.

She closed her eyes and shook her head to shake the memory loose. It hit her. Becca had copied those images into her journal. Rose opened her eyes and gasped. She stared as the two symbols formed again and again. Becca had translated them as the Primbobi words for “What” and “You.”

The class applauded, but she didn’t notice.

“That was wonderful, Rose,” her teacher said, standing. “Congratulations.”

But Rose didn’t hear her. She couldn’t believe what she saw. As she replayed the images, she searched for the subtleties.

“I’m Rose,” she said to the monitor. “Who are you?”