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Barrett studied the wall. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“But she drew what comes next.”

“Maybe she came in another way.”

I frowned. “Wouldn’t she have marked it?”

“Maybe.”

Neither of us believed that.

I moved closer to the limestone and pressed my hand against the wall. “How many times have you been here?”

“Dozens.”

“And this has always been here? No crack? Passage? Convenient botanist-sized hole?”

“No.”

“Have you ever touched it?”

That earned me a look. “It’s rock. Course I’ve touched it.”

I studied Grandma’s map again. It didn’t make sense.

Then Barrett inhaled sharply.

I looked up to see he’d gone completely still. His head tilted slightly, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the wall.

“Barrett?”

“Listen.”

For several seconds, I heard nothing except dripping water and our breathing.

Then Barrett took a step forward. His hand rose to his sternum, rubbing it absently.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He moved another step closer to the wall, and the fur along his arms lifted. “Don’t know.”

Every instinct I possessed sharpened. “Does it hurt?”

He considered the question, his brow furrowing. “No.”

“What does it feel like?”

Barrett was silent for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then he said, “Like waking up.”

A chill moved over my skin.

He’d used almost the same language before when we talked about plants calling to him, about knowing what they needed without understanding why.

Barrett took another step forward.

The air changed.