The morning after the storm, the corridor looked perfect.
Snow pushed to the edges. Sand spread evenly across the surface. The first convoy moved out at dawn, wheels gripping the treated stone.
Arthur watched from the eastern gate.
Then the lead wagon reached the mile marker.
The road looked fine. Same gravel. Same grade. Same sand.
But the right rear wheel sank.
Not slowly. Suddenly. The stone surface cracked. The wheel dropped into softness beneath. The wagon tilted hard. Cargo shifted. The driver shouted and hauled the reins.
The wagon stopped, angled sharply, one wheel buried to the axle.
Behind it, the entire convoy halted.
Arthur walked toward the failure without speaking.
---
Zack reached it first.
He knelt beside the sunken wheel. Pushed his hand into the gap between stone and mud. When he pulled it out, black water dripped from his fingers.
"The road looks fine," Zack said. "Ground underneath is soup."
Arthur knelt across from him.
