Henry fetched a spade and a crowbar. They dug carefully, clearing roots with their hands. The patch of metal widened into a full square lid, lined with bolts and swallowed by layers of mud. Someone had buried this deliberately. The dog whined softly and nudged the edge with his nose, unwilling to leave his discovery.
They traced the border until they found a small handle packed with dirt. Henry wedged the crowbar underneath and pushed. The ground hissed as air escaped, carrying the smell of damp stone and old rain. It was not gas or sewer. It was something older.
They called the non-emergency line. The dispatcher asked if it seemed dangerous. Henry said he didn’t know, only that it shouldn’t be there. She sent an officer to keep an eye on it overnight. The dog lay down by the hole, chin resting on the edge, guarding it like a buried treasure.