Read So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) for Free Online

ground spongy and damp, the wet leaves glistening and heavy. The fog has lifted, but mist still curves in ribbons around the tree trunks.
    “Maybe we should go home, Grandpa.” I tilt my head back to feel the rain fall softly on my eyelids. “It’s really starting to come down.”
    “Nonsense. It’s barely raining. And we’re not done yet. I need to go back to the southwest bunker.”
    “You’ve been there a million times before. Why would it be different this time?”
    “It might be. We have to be thorough. I want to look at the door one more time. I think the concrete is starting to crack. We might be able to create another hole if we’re lucky.” He starts back through a narrow path in the woods, pushing aside branches as he walks. I straighten and reluctantly follow him.
    The southwest bunker is a cement door that leads into the side of a small hill. It is eight feet tall and ten feet wide, with faded black lettering across the front: DO NOT ENTER. CLOSED TO PUBLIC . On either side of the door cement wings flare outward, two triangles that frame the hill. If you look at it from the side or the top, it appears to be a normal grass-covered mound. Only from the front can you see the cement structure set deep into the earth. There are bunkers like this scattered all over Camp Hero, some large and on the main road, some, like this one, hidden in the woods.
    For some reason my grandfather keeps returning to this one spot. It’s at the end of a long, rambling, tick-ridden path, a hike that only the most diehard conspiracy theorists would attempt to navigate. The bunker is almost concealed by the dense leaves and curving branches of nearby trees. The warning sign on the front is practically unreadable, and the cement is chipped, with a small chunk missing near the top.
    These old bunkers were probably storage facilities used to house weapons or equipment during World War II, designed to look like hills to disguise them from enemy fire. Some of them were attached to long-range guns that jutted out over the ocean, ready to fire on German submarines. But according to my grandfather, they’re actually secret doors that lead to an extensive underground network of labs and holding cells. Never mind that the cement looks less like a door and more like a permanent seal. Never mind that it is so overgrown that it clearly hasn’t been opened in fifty years.
    When we reach the bunker, I sit on the wet grass and lock my arms around my jeans. My grandfather starts bustling near the entrance, running his hands over the sealed edges of the door. What is he looking for? A break? A crack? A secret button that will slide it open and reveal all of its secrets? And if he finds it, then what? This seventy-five-year-old man will wander inside to fight a reptoid?
    As I wait, I compulsively line up nearby sticks into neat, corresponding rows. One stick facing me, one away. Soon they are perfectly organized piles. Satisfied, I start to arrange the leaves that are scattered around my legs.
    Time passes. The rain is a steady, falling mist that coats my button-down gingham shirt and the sweater I have draped over my shoulders. Tiny drops of water cling to my hair and face. The rain starts to get heavier. I stand up, my sweater falling onto the damp grass.
    “Grandpa, I think it’s time to go.”
    He still hasn’t moved. He’s soaked; his sweater looks heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair is plastered to the back of his head. “Not now, Lydia.” He sounds distracted, absent.
    I walk closer to him. We’re so far in the woods that all I can hear are birds chirping in the trees. The air smells like wet earth and rotting leaves.
    “Grandpa.” I touch his shoulder gently. “We’ve been here for hours. It’s time to go now.” My voice is soft and coaxing.
    “Just one more second, kiddo.”
    “No, Grandpa.” I carefully grasp his hand. “Please, it’s time to go now.”
    “If I could just get into this concrete. If I could just