We have a few things in the back room: a pile of stoplights, thick coils of wire, blueprints for a new machine. There is a gate and behind that, stairs. We used to go out for walks, Christina and I. Past the castle and past the castle again. When we started doing the tours I found out that she can see very, very well in the dark. At first she would lead a line of a dozen tourists with me at the back. They’d shine their dollar store flashlights down the walls and snap blurry photos around corners. This was all back when there was nothing but the tunnels, back when we ended at the trap door beneath the castle’s bedroom. We went down—Christina and I—one night and we found the tracks.

    We knew there were other passages, but most of them dead-ended in piles of cinderblocks and rusted I-beams. Christina would squint through the rubble and say there was nothing on the other side, and we’d turn back. When we found the tracks they were behind another destroyed wall. I lifted Christina up by the waist so she could see over the top, and there they were. We spent most of the night moving the rocks aside. I held my flashlight between my teeth and Christina dropped rocks on her toes. We were careless, using our own backs to lift and our forearms for shovels. At the end, Christina hopped over the last low rocks.

    Tracks, going on forever, she said. I can’t see the end of them.

    She laid down across the first track tie and it was longer than she was. Christina is a tall woman, taller than me, and when we measured the span was nine feet. The ceilings were higher there. I pictured a machine to fill the space, a shuttle for the tunnel that could carry us on past the vanishing point even Christina couldn’t see.

    We cancelled tours the next day. We had scratches and bruises all over, soaked them in warm water and wrapped ourselves in gauze. Christina fell asleep before noon. I stayed awake at my desk with the maps and looked through books on the history of the castle. There was nothing about the tracks, or spaces with ceilings high enough for an old shuttle—I shouldn’t have been surprised. After dusk I woke Christina and we went back down the stairs, retraced our path through the tunnels and started following the tracks. We paid close attention to the ceiling; we had known that the way leading up to the tracks was lined with fallen I-beams and tubing. There was rusted metal and corroded plastic, everything to indicate the tunnel had collapsed until the space opened up. Where the tracks were the ceiling was still arched, the barrel vault still holding. Christina walked ahead of me, the smallest but the only other living thing against the wide backdrop. I took the left rail like a balance beam, holding out my arms and counting steps.

    Ten minutes into the walk the tracks sloped down. We knew the rest of the tunnels stayed at an even depth, save a few dips and hills that always leveled out. There were trickles of water along the walls and the dust turned to mud as we continued. I held onto Christina’s hand and when she started to slip I caught her by the elbow. For all her vision in the dark of the tunnels Christina was clumsy. We walked on and then Christina took a nasty fall. She saw the rock, knew how big it was and how close she was to it; still she tripped and didn’t recover. I saw her go down hard, tried to grab her waist and then her sleeve as she fell. Then she was sitting on the ground, holding her arm out in front of her face.

    I can’t move my fingers, she said.

    What? I said.

    My fingers, she said. They won’t move.

    She stood up slowly, rubbed the small of her back with her other hand.

    Let me see, I said.

    I touched her fingers one by one. They were red and getting bigger.

    Do you feel that? I said.

    Yes, and it hurts, she said.

    Christina brushed the water from her eyes and walked on ahead of me.

    Where are you going? I said.

    It’s early, she said.

    But you’re hurt, I said.

    I’ll be fine, she said.

    I wanted to pick her up, carry her back to our house slung over my shoulder. Christina hates to be taken care of.

    We walked on for hours and the tracks kept on straight and at a low incline. I imagined the vehicle they had been made for, something large but controlled enough so it wouldn’t gain too much speed as it went downhill.

    I wonder what the shuttle looked like, I said.

    I wonder if they had headlights, Christina said.

    It would have to, I said.

    Christina shook her head and almost slipped again. But there’s only one track, she said. Why would it have to see where it was going?

    I don’t know, I said. But I’ll bet that it had headlights. Or something.

    We turned and went back the way we came, back up the slope and into the small tunnels and up the stairs again. Our shoes were covered with mud and we left them in the back room. I wrapped Christina’s wrist with elastic tape. She swore under her breath and I made her promise not to try anything, no movement or weight on her hand. For the second day in a row we cancelled the tours. Christina slept and I drew up a sign that said New Tour Coming Soon and taped it in the front window. I went back to my desk.

    We were short on money: the tours did well but not well enough. We advertised by word of mouth, and sometimes people who came to look at the castle would walk by and see our signs.  We had found a hobby that turned into a job and it was turning back into a hobby again. But we had a few loyal fans, some kids from the area who had taken the tour dozens of times and who would be as interested as we were in the tracks. Christina was happy when the tunnels were our little secret, just that mysterious stairway in our back room and the underground paths it lead to. I was the one who bought all the regional history books, scoured them for weeks trying to figure out what the tunnels were for and why the entrance was in our house. The kids who came by would feed me old lore and new rumors but nothing ever fit the maps Christina and I had drawn. The gate, the stairs, the mystery, it was all ours. And now there were more, bigger tunnels, and there was Christina’s sprained wrist.

    The next night Christina saw me getting ready to go back into the tunnels. I had my boots on, and an extra pair of gloves in case the paths went deeper and it got cold. I had two flashlights, one spare since I thought Christina would stay home and nurse her wrist. I knew better than to try to take care of her. I opened the gate and she blocked me with her good arm. I thought she was still in bed.

    Where do you think you’re going? Christina said.

    To look for the shuttle some more, I said. You should stay here.

    Are you crazy? she said. You can’t go down there without me.

    But you’re hurt, I said.

    I’m coming with you, she said. Help me put my shoes on.

    Christina was right even if she was crazy not to stay in. She was clumsy, but I couldn’t see two feet in front of my face without her. I would go down, wander all night, and walk right past whatever it was we were looking for.

    Are you coming because you want to? I said. Or because you don’t want me down there alone?

    Yes, Christina said. Now, help me put my shoes on.

    That sprained wrist scared me, maybe more than anything else about her. When it happened she had told me that sprains heal themselves, she took some pills before bed, and she did not say another word about it. We didn’t have the money for a doctor and we didn’t know any, besides. What scared me was that she was still coming, and that I was happy.

    We walked slowly so Christina wouldn’t fall again. Even in the dark I could tell she was half glaring at me for staying so close and half smiling. She told me her wrist didn’t hurt as much anymore and I believed her. She told me to stop worrying and I did.

    When we found the shuttle I dropped my flashlight. It cast a cone of light across the ground and I could see the tracks receding, see the big, dark wheels shining and the empty space between the machine and the ground.

    Christina, tell me what it looks like, I said.

    It doesn’t have headlights, she said. It might have been white. There are cracks in the window on the front.

    What else? I said.

    There’s a door in the front, she said. It’s hanging by its hinges. There are wires and pipes coming out from the bottom, maybe the whole way down.

    What else? I said.

    There are words painted on the front, she said.

    I turned to her and opened my eyes wide. She was smiling, and then laughing, and then almost doubled over.

    They say, Aren’t You Glad Your Injured Girlfriend Is With You? she said.

    That’s funny, I said.

    I put my arm around her waist and shouted Yes at the shuttle. I picked up my flashlight and we walked closer.

    From end to end it was fifty feet, with twenty long, dark windows on each side. The whole thing was rusted under thick chips of white paint and some of the windows had spiderweb cracks stemming from their corners. We walked through the door left hanging by its hinges. The shuttle had a broad nose with a control panel inside, an array of knobs and levers and gauges. We paced up and down the length of it, pressing our hands against the windows and tapping its metal insides. There were frayed wires coming out from the ceiling, but otherwise the shuttle was empty.

    We should find its engine, I said.

    And do what? Christina said.

    Make it work, I said. Drive it.

    It’s late, she said.

    I know, I said. Later. We’ll come back, we’ll make it work, we’ll drive it through the tunnels and find the end. It has to go somewhere.

    We have to do more tours tomorrow, she said. We can’t skip any more days.

    What about your wrist? I said.

    It didn’t stop us tonight, she said. And besides, it feels better now.

    Christina wiggled the tips of her fingers. They moved slow and she turned her face away to wince. But they were moving, which meant she was okay, which meant no doctors.

    Christina pulled me back out of the shuttle and back to our house.  We slept for a few hours and opened shop. Only two groups came that day; we were used to having four or five but I didn’t mind the break. We walked them through the normal route, past the corridor that lead to the tracks so no one saw the gaping entrance. Someone mentioned the New Tours sign and I said we still had some excavation to do. At the front of the line Christina rattled off the story of how we found the tunnels, the door to the castle, how we suspected there must be more underground but had no way of knowing.

    Christina and I didn’t go back to the shuttle that night. She consented to resting up while I pulled some things together. We had a closet of flashlights and helmets that we lent to the tourists, and on the top shelf was a box of tools. I put it near the gate so we could open up the engine and see what was there. I called around for books on motors and mechanics and tried to draw the shuttle from memory.

    When Christina saw the toolbox she said, Do you really think we can do this ourselves?

    No, I said. I don’t know. We probably can’t make it work, but we can figure out what we need.

    What do you think we should do? she said. Should we take the tours down there? It would take all day.

    We’ll need to stir up interest, I said. Maybe find someone who can help us.

    You mean, hire somebody? she said.

    No, just, find someone who’s interested and has money and then they’ll hire the people who can make the shuttle work, I said.

    Or, she said, we could take the tour through the shuttle and not worry about fixing it. Just have a long tour and still do two of the regular ones every day. I don’t want mechanics in and out of there all the time.

    Why not? I said. We have the tours.

    That’s different, she said. We’re in control of those. The mechanics, we wouldn’t watch them all the time. They’d be down there alone.

    So? I said. They’d work for us.

    But they’re our tunnels, she said. Remember?

    The next morning I made a new sign: Extended Tour Now Includes Mystery Shuttle. A small group formed just before noon and we led them down the tracks. They spent half an hour wandering around it, snapping pictures and inspecting the control panel. I stood in the front and looked for anyone who seemed like they might recognize the dials, be able to parse meaning and tell me what they were for. A man with a beard rested his hand on every control for a moment and stared at them as if he expected the shuttle to move. He asked if I knew how it worked and I said no.

    My name is Michael, he said. Nice to meet you.

    Thanks, I said. Do you know how it works?

    Michael hesitated. No, he said. 

    Oh, I said. You just looked like maybe—

    No, he said. But I’m curious.

    Me too, I said.

    The walk back felt long. Christina was several paces ahead of the group; they shined their flashlights around the ceilings and when we came back to the small tunnels they whispered about  the sudden opening, the downward incline, the abrupt end of the tracks. Michael walked toward the front and kept his flashlight at his feet.

    I told Christina about what Michael had said, the way he lingered at the controls like some kind of pilot. I told her he might have been the person we needed, the man who could tell us how to make the shuttle work. I told her he hesitated before saying he didn’t know.

    You really want this, don’t you? she said.

    Want what? I said.

    To get the shuttle to work, she said.

    Of course, I said. Don’t you?

    I suppose, she said. I suppose it could be interesting. We haven’t seen what’s past it, yet. We should do a few more days of tours and then go walk past it some more. I still can’t see how far that tunnel goes.

    You want to go for more walks? I said.

    Maybe, she said. Maybe pack supplies and explore for a couple of days, like when we first got here.

    I had almost forgotten about those first trips. It was years ago, before the routine of the tours set in and we ran out of time for our own walks. I felt as though Christina and I had been living here our whole lives, doing tours through the tunnels, explaining that there were no explanations; it had always been this way. But there were times before then, when Christina and I took food and sleeping bags and wandered the tunnels for days at a time. She would pretend to be afraid and we’d stay close. She could see exactly how far a path went before it curved but she’d make us stop for the night. I learned to skate in the mud and when we found hills I would pretend to ski down them. Then I’d trudge back up with an inch of mud covering my shoes. Christina tried and tried to drift across the ground without lifting her feet, holding out her arms and pushing off from the wall of the tunnel, but she’d fall or almost fall every time. She landed face down, once. She told me to turn the flashlight off, that she was a hideous mud creature and she was going to eat me. With the flashlights off the tunnels were so dark I couldn’t see her when she was inches away. I remember the way my hand found her wet cheek—the tiny rocks shifting beneath my fingers and gluing my skin to hers. She told me it smelled like a basement, like rain on pavement, like the floor in our house when I don’t take my shoes off. I skated away and fell down on purpose. This was how those nights ended: me and Christina, locked together on the ground, with mud on our faces. We would whisper about never coming out, about abandoning our house and coming up through the castle for more supplies. I missed it.

    Michael and six other men were outside when we woke up in the morning. They had hardhats with lamps and tool belts. They wanted to start when the day’s tour was over, and one of the men promised to have the shuttle working in less than a week. Christina said nothing and I told them to come back in the evening. She didn’t say a word to me during the tours, and neither of us mentioned the plans to the group when they balked at the shuttle.

    I caught her as the tourists were leaving; she was taking her shoes off in the back room. You should keep your shoes on, I said. We’re going to have to go back with those men.

    Why should I go back? Christina said. You go. I’ll stay here.

    I’ve never been down there without you, I said. Don’t you want to see? Don’t you want to be there if they make it work?

    I’m tired, she said. I’ll see it when it’s finished.

    Do you want me to have them come back? I said.

    No, tonight’s fine, she said.

    You should come, I said. I want you there.

    It’s okay, she said. If they get it to work, come and get me.

    I led the men through the gate and all the way to the shuttle. I knew the way and we had our flashlights, but without Christina’s eyes I was afraid we would miss something in the dark. Christina could see the dead end walls from far away, she would know if the tunnel changed up ahead or if it was too long to explore in one night. The men brought instruments for measuring depth and thickness of walls, the flatness of the ground and consistency of mud. I had our maps that stopped with the shuttle, but I wanted Christina and her eyes with us. We could get the shuttle moving and slam it into a pile of rubble, or we could go too far in and not have a way out.

    When we found the shuttle the men started working. Michael and I stood to the side and watched while they pulled panels off the front, tore out rusted screws and put new ones in, followed the wires through the ceiling and wove them back together. A man who had been standing at the control panel came out waving a diagram; he had drawn out all of the mechanisms and labelled them. They were simple enough: Accelerate, Decelerate, Stop, Turn Engine On/Off, Fuel.

    I read the last one. Fuel? I said.

    Yes, the man said. We’re not sure what it ran on originally.

    Does that mean it can’t work? I said.

    Not necessarily, the man said. We think we can make it run on anything; we just have to make some changes to the engine.

    He ran back to the front of the shuttle. Two other men who were underneath emerged and from where we stood, Michael and I could hear them talking about modifications and options in motor technology.

    What are you thinking? I said.

    I think we’re going to be very, very rich, Michael said.

    No, I said. I mean, what are you thinking about how much longer they’ll take?

    It doesn’t matter, he said. They’ll fix it, they’ll get it to work, and then you and me and your girlfriend will be very, very rich.

    What should we do now? I said.

    We get ready, Michael said. You go walk these tunnels some more. Make sure the shuttle has room to move. We hang lights on the walls, signs, stoplights, like it’s an underground city. We do whatever we want, we make it look interesting. We get ready, and then my boys make your shuttle work, and then we go public.

    The men made lists of supplies they needed and we walked back before morning. Christina was still asleep so I climbed in bed next to her, waited until she rolled over and half-opened her eyes. I told her that she was right, that we should go explore more. She reached for my hand and squeezed it hard. She winced—it was her bad wrist. Then she nodded, asked if I knew where our backpacks were, and fell back to sleep. We hadn’t touched our backpacks since before we started the tours. That night I pulled them down from their hooks in the closet. Christina found the ropes and we lashed on sleeping bags and tarps to keep us dry on the muddy ground. I carried the gallon jug of water and Christina carried the maps; she was the one who could see well enough to draw in new tunnels. Michael bought us heavy boots and smoke flares, things we never needed on our first trips down. He gave me a coil of wire to stretch behind us when we walked and told me the men would use it to put up lights. When we first started the tours, people suggested we hang lamps along the way. Christina always refused.

    Christina was silent until we were well past the shuttle. The tracks descended so far she couldn’t see the shuttle or the men or their lamps behind us and finally she turned to me. What are you thinking? she said.

    I don’t know, I said. How does your wrist feel?

    She unwrapped it and moved her hand in stiff circles. It’s fine, she said.

    Well, I’m glad it’s better, I said.

    I shouldn’t be so clumsy, she said.

    She half-tripped again as she said it. I scanned her face for a sign that she had meant to. There was none.

    Do you wish we hadn’t found it? I said.

    I don’t know, Christina said. I like that there’s more down here. I like being a little lost.

    I mean the shuttle, I said.

    It’s something to think about, she said. But we already have all of this.

    Christina shouted the last word. She waved her arms and spun. We have all of this, she said. It’s ours.

    I shut off my flashlight so neither of us had a sense of space. There were no tracks, I could feel the resistance of the mud under my feet but no air moving, Christina was somewhere squinting and not seeing anything. I turned the flashlight back on and she was within arm’s reach. I stuck my hand in her hair. You have something in your hair, I said. Christina didn’t flinch; she reached for my wrist and leaned in and kissed me.

    I remember that, she said.

    You used to do it to me all the time, I said. It was terrifying.

    We had the tarps and the sleeping bags and we did not use them. We set up a small camp on the first night, laid everything out in parallel lines and then we both started laughing.

     Look at all of this stuff, Christina said.

    The wires, the battery-operated hot plate, the maps and the map-making equipment—none of it was ours. The flares and the sleeping bags, the fluorescent flashlights that made the tunnel look like a street in daytime. Christina’s voice echoed. It went circling through the tunnel, it collapsed on the sleeping bags and the compact pillows. She kicked at the beds.

    I can’t sleep in this thing, she said.

    Neither can I, I said. Look at it.

    I can’t sleep with any of this stuff, she said. I can’t sleep at all.

    Then let’s keep going, I said. Let’s not sleep.

    So we didn’t sleep. We left all of the stuff there and only carried the water and food. I kept my own flashlight. I shined it on Christina’s back as she walked ahead of me. She was there, the shape of her stepping farther and farther into the tunnel. In between her footfalls I heard the dripping of water down the walls, the slow fall of a million particles from the surface. In between the tiny noises of the tunnel there was silence, a silence of wet air hanging and all of the motionless things—the mud, the walls, the tracks. I counted the ties as I walked. I pictured the shuttle, bright with a new coat of paint and lit up from inside, racing toward me. It would not be slow, or silent, I thought. It would be a giant, an avalanche of machinery, it would need to have the mud scraped from its sides every night, it would need to be fed. I pictured Christina lying over the tracks like she did the night we found them—how they were long and cold and fantastic, sleeping in the dark, how Christina smiled when she combed the mud from her hair. I looked up again and Christina had half-vanished behind a curve in the tunnel.

    Wait, I said. Where are you going?

    She stopped. I thought you saw it, she said.    

    I was looking at the tracks, I said.

    Christina held out her hand and I took it. Her fingers were covered in mud. She kissed me and I could smell the water on her cheeks.

    We spent three days going further along the tracks and two days on our return trip. We came back with mud in our hair and on our faces, hungry and grinning. The men were still there at the shuttle; we heard it whirring and sputtering as we came up the hill. There was smoke floating in the tunnel in gray, still clouds at the top of the ceiling. Michael was asleep on a cot in the corner with a sign on his chest that said Wake Me If You’ve Done Something. We nodded at the men and kept on toward home. We went to bed without cleaning off the mud. It was daylight outside and we slept until night.

    Christina finished the new map of the tracks we had followed. They went on further, but without the shuttle there wouldn’t be much use of tracks and tunnels that were three days away from home. We went back to the shuttle and gave the maps to Michael.

    No obstacles, I said. There shouldn’t be anything in the way if you get this thing to move.

    Good, Michael said. We’ve had some setbacks—

    We saw the smoke, Christina said.

    We’ve had some setbacks, Michael said. But they’re going to get the job done. I’ll call some more guys and have them fix up the tunnels you’ve been through.

    Before the shuttle is working? Christina said.

    We need to be ready, Michael said. This is going to be big.

    Christina looked from me, to the shuttle with its dismantled engine spread over the floor, to Michael and the bags under his eyes.

    You should get back to doing your tours, Michael said. We’ll stay out of your way.

    We did long tours every other day for weeks while Michael’s men set off tiny electrical fires by night and laid cabling down the tracks. Michael left and came back with a dozen stoplights and enough street signs for a small town, promising to make the tunnels look like an abandoned city. He told us it would raise intrigue, spark conversation, keep people coming back. Christina and I kept the old signs in our windows and one by one Michael’s men started to leave.

    When Michael told me it was over I had already lost most of my interest. He hadn’t let me see the control panel, the plans for the modified engine, the specifications that showed how fast the shuttle would move. He told me he had come to terms with losing his investment, he sighed between every word, he told me he was sorry for wasting my time, and then he left. Two men stayed behind to take their things from the tunnels and they left everything in our back room. They left litter in the tunnels, pencil stubs and washer rings that the tourists collected as souvenirs. When they all had gone Christina went through the papers. They had no idea, she said. All along, not a single one of them knew how to make it work.

    I had a feeling, I said.

    No, you didn’t, she said.

    We have a few things in the back room: muddy boots and old wire, the bits of metal transplanted inside. We are sitting on this mystery, we sleep just above it and we go walking through its heart some nights.    

A note on the title: Michel Siffre is a French scientist and explorer who spent six months alone in a cave as part of a 1970s NASA experiment. At the beginning of his stay, he kept himself occupied by catching and killing the mice and other animals that lived in the cave. He may not have seen any living things until his 162nd day, when he found another mouse. Siffre was overjoyed to have a companion and tried to coax it near him for days. On the third day, Siffre attempted to capture the mouse in an empty casserole dish. His muscles weakened and his motor skills dulled, Siffre dropped the dish and crushed the mouse to death.

Brooklyn, Spring 2008.

Fiction Studio, Professor Popahna Brandes.

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