Levi Malkovich consulted his map again. He frowned. He said, “I think we must have passed it.”
Donovan turned her flashlight on his face. She said, “I thought you knew where you were going. Isn’t that your map?”
Malkovich shrugged apologetically. “The map is a collaborative effort. We try to confirm the new additions but it often takes weeks before that happens. It’s not like urban archaeology is a paying gig. Most of the time the city actively works to prevent us from being down here. I racked up a few hundred in fines last year for my so-called trespassing. NYC is expensive enough without having to deal with that shit.”
Donovan pointed her light back the way we had come. The tunnel’s walls were so pocked and crenulated that it was possible that we had passed a branch without realizing it.
There was only the sound of dripping water and Malkovich adjusting the maps. Then, for a moment, we heard the sound of a baby crying. It was just a distant echo but it was clear enough to send centipedes down our spines.