September 1987. A dry creek bed outside Mankato, Kansas. Luna's grandfather used to tell her about the bridge that wasn't there—a concrete span that appeared only in the deepest drought, when the water dropped low enough to reveal it. She drove out one August night to see for herself. What she found under that bridge was not a riverbed. It was a door, painted the same rust-red as the old barn on the Ulrich place. And it was ajar. This is a story about what waits beneath the plains, about the things we inherit that we never asked for, and about the sound of a single bell ringing in the dark.

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