Aunt June scanned the gate with equipment that looked older than she was.
“Still powered,” she said. “That’s unpleasant.”
Mom parked behind a line of scrub trees.
She turned to me.
“Lucas, listen to me. If anything happens, you stay with June.”
“No.”
“Lucas.”
“No. You don’t get to tell me I’m part of this and then tell me to wait in a truck.”
Her face hardened, then softened.
“You are thirteen.”
“And apparently the living key to an invisible airplane.”
Aunt June snorted.
“He has your mouth too.”
Mom closed her eyes for one second.
Then she handed me a small radio.
“You do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
I nodded.
We entered through a maintenance tunnel Aunt June remembered from “a year I refuse to discuss.” Inside, Raven Mesa smelled like dust, metal, and old secrets. Emergency lights glowed along the walls. Somewhere deep in the facility, machinery pulsed.
