Under a dome of white light, shovels in hand, the digging began before sunrise. The team of archaeologists concentrated on digging a trench, searching for a long-lost mastaba, a rectangular-shaped tomb that had been a more common method of burial in ancient Egypt than the legendary pyramids.

The horizon soon began to glow a mix of reds and oranges as the sun slowly made its appearance. The rays warmed the air, quickly convincing the workers to shed their jackets and shut off the floodlights.

By mid-morning, they had their trench dug by several feet with a huge mountain of sand growing at one end. Leila, Emma, Hamza, and Karl began to work on the sifting, hoping to find anything that might resemble pottery, beads, or tools. Soliman didn't want a single grain left unturned, so they had set up several large sifting screens hanging from tripods, which were settled underneath a makeshift shelter as protection from the relentless sun.

In turn, they each filled buckets with dirt, carried them to the screens, then dumped them out over the wire mesh.

By giving the wooden frame a few good shakes, the sand sprinkled through, leaving only the larger pieces. Each of the leftover rocks and bits of clay were thoroughly inspected in order to separate anything that showed promise.

With tender movements, Leila brushed and picked at the lumps until determining which pile they belonged to. Her pile of possible artifacts was pathetically minuscule compared to the heap of rejects. The tiny collection consisted mostly of what were probably rocks yet could be easily mistaken as broken shards of pottery. She put them aside to double-check later, just in case.

By mid-day, the temperatures had climbed into the hundreds. Leila carried her pan of "pottery shards" to the table and brushed off each piece again. Even though she was certain they weren't artifacts, she dropped them into a small plastic bag and left them for Soliman to examine before he tossed them. It was unlikely they would find anything at all the first few days or even weeks. There was still a huge pile of sand to sift through and more digging to be done.

Leila dusted off her front, though she knew it was pointless. She'd been rolling in the sand all morning, and it wouldn't end there. The muscles up and down her arms ached and the skin on the back of her neck tightened from sunburn, despite several applications of sunscreen and staying in the shade. She swiped at her hair, which stuck to the beads of sweat on her face. Eager for a little bit of relief, she snapped up her water bottle and dumped the remainder of the water over her head, even though she would be dry again within a minute.

"You know, I've been thinking," Karl said from somewhere behind her.

"That's new," Leila quipped, glancing over her shoulder to see him setting down a pail full of sand. "About what?"

"Well, if aliens didn't build the pyramids—" Karl huffed when Leila rolled her eyes. "Wait, hear me out on this. If the Egyptians didn't have any help, then how come there are no records of the pyramids actually being built? And how did they move two-ton blocks by hand? And why are there paintings of flying saucers?"

"Oh, please. You're not giving them nearly enough credit."

"See, you can't even answer that." With smug lips curled, Karl crossed his arms and lifted his chin.

Leila returned the smile. Challenge accepted. "Just because we can't figure it out today doesn't mean they didn't know what they were doing back then. There are plenty of hypotheses about how they carried the stones. It could have been as simple as wet sand. Wet sand becomes heavy and solid, which means less friction when something, like a sled, travels over it. A dozen men could push or drag two tons of stone much more easily on wet sand." She could go on all day.

Karl pursed his lips and gazed into the distance, contemplating. Then he shook his head. "Nope. I don't buy it. Someone's tried to cover it up, and they've done a pretty good job of it. But the evidence is out there. There must be something they missed."

Leila laughed. "Tell it to Daniken. And next time you're on the beach, let me know if it's easier to walk on the wet sand or on the dry sand."

She couldn't say if the wet sand idea was true since there were many other theories on the subject, but she was certain the ancient Egyptians were perfectly capable of building their empire without any extraterrestrial help. Despite that, she didn't think anything she told Karl would convince him otherwise. He had once told her this was the reason he began studying archaeology in the first place. With visions of becoming the host of alien documentaries on TV, nothing could stop him.

With a shake of her head, she picked up her trowel and was about to resume digging when her gaze fell on Neal, the pilot-archaeologist-sponsor. He trudged along the path at the edge of the trench, lugging a bucket of sand in each hand. His face glowed red underneath his grubby fisherman's hat, and sweat spotted his gray shirt. He stopped at the sifting pile and dumped out the buckets.

Leila cringed, hoping he hadn't been doing that all morning. She climbed out of the trench and approached him.

"Hey," she said with a timid wave. "How's it going?"

Before answering, he took off his hat and used it to wipe off his face.

"Great. Just great," he muttered. "No mastodon yet, though."

"You mean... mastabas?"

"Yes. Exactly. Mastabas. The, uh, tomb things."

A smile flickered over her face. What was this guy doing here? Stand-in executive she could believe, but he didn't make a convincing Egyptologist like he said he was. The only thing he seemed to know was the pointy end of the shovel went in the dirt. How on earth did someone so green get permission to dig here? Egypt was notoriously strict about who could excavate and who couldn't. It would almost be cute if he wasn't causing them even more work. How to tell him without making him mad? Especially since his father's monetary contributions were the only reason she was able to be hired for the excavation.

Without him, she wouldn't be here. But then, she had a job to do.

She inched toward him and kept her voice low. "Actually, I was wondering about this sifting pile."

"What about it?"

"Well, that's not ours."

"It's not?" Neal threw a panicked glance over his shoulder.

Leila pointed across the trenches. "Ours is over there, by pit five."

Neal's mouth dropped. "Then wh—"

"You!" a man shouted. Standing twenty yards down the path, he wore a white jellabiya robe that hung to his ankles. Leila didn't recognize him from their team.

He put his hands on his hips. "Have you been dumping khara into our sifting pile all day?"

Leila cupped her hands over her mouth. "Sorry! We'll get it sorted!"

The man scowled and waved a dismissive hand before disappearing back into his trench.

"Are you serious?" Neal said, running a hand through his hair. Droplets of sweat went flying.

"Don't worry about it." Leila shook her head, trying not to laugh, despite having even more work to do, no thanks to Mr. Mastodon. What was that guy doing here, anyway?

Digging and sifting continued for another hour. They were starting to see the outline of an underground structure but despite their shades and tents, the desert heat showed no mercy and the workers began to take refuge in the shade. Soliman was pleased with their progress, hoping sometime tomorrow they could use the smaller tools for more delicate work.

Leila had stationed herself at the sifter, determined to sort through Neal's pile of dirt as fast as possible so the neighboring excavation wouldn't have to complain again. She sifted, washed off rocks in plastic basins, then sifted some more.

Another half hour went by. She straightened and wiped the moisture from her brow, her gaze falling on Xander a few yards away as he took a long drink from a water bottle. So far, they had been able to avoid each other the entire morning. He was even more of a mess than her, with dirt smeared all over his clothes, the fabric soaked through with sweat. She scrunched her nose, then returned her attention to the bags of ceramic-like shards she had collected, and picked up a marker to write the labels.

"Anything interesting?" Xander said from behind her.

"Nope, pretty sure everything can be tossed," she answered with a sigh, relieved he was sticking to a professional topic. She inspected the tip of the marker, which refused to write on the plastic surface.

"No surprise there," Xander said as he selected a new marker from the other side of the table and handed it to her.

After a moment's hesitation, Leila took it. "Thanks," she muttered, hoping he didn't notice the slight tremble of her hand. Although she was proud of herself for having a seemingly ordinary conversation with him, she couldn't wait for him to leave so her breathing could return to its normal pattern.

Xander peered down at the plastic bag she had written on, a pensive expression coming over his face. He seized another marker and crossed out her writing.

"What are you doing?" Leila gasped.

"Writing a new label."

"There's nothing wrong with the one I wrote." She tried to snatch the bag from under the tip of his pen, but he whisked it out of her reach.

The crunch of heavy boots came from nearby.

"You guys need any help?" Neal called with a wave.

"Not from you," Xander muttered, scowling.

Leila glowered, arms crossed, tempted to call after Neal as he continued on his way, shovel on his shoulder. She'd rather spend hours explaining the basics of archaeology to him than have to stand here and have some awkward conversation with Xander.

Neal stopped when he came to a device situated on a tripod with a stout, yellow telescope settled between two vertical axes. With one eye closed, he bent forward to peek through the eyepiece.

Seeing an opportunity, Leila wheeled around to Xander.

"Hey." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward Neal. "You might want to help him with the theodolite."

Xander cursed under his breath and jogged off. "Don't touch anything!" he yelled.

She released a sigh of relief and her shoulders relaxed, although her hands shook. Was this how the dig would continue? With constant tension between them, with her always fighting the urge to throw up at the sight of him? No, she was going to find Soliman and talk to him, or she didn't think she could survive the next five months.

Ready to clean up and call it a day, she glanced down at the plastic bag full of rocks they had been fighting over. Large, angular letters spelled out "rubbish." She tossed the bag onto the discard pile.