The Last Causeway · ARTHUR IVERSON
The causeway had outlived Nora’s father by six years and his apology by thirty-nine.
She stood where he had once brought her with a thermos of hot chocolate, on the concrete shoulder above the tide gates, and fitted the brass jaws of his caliper around a hairline crack. The tool had no business on a modern inspection. A laser gauge hung at her hip, logging movement to a hundredth of a millimetre, but the caliper made her look at the concrete instead of the number.
One point four.
She opened the jaws, wiped salt from them with her thumb, and measured again.
One point six.
End of excerpt
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