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CHAPTER 1

THE DIGGER

When I first meet Taylor Wilson he is sixteen and busy — far too busy, he says, to pursue a driver's license. And so he rides shotgun as his father, Kenneth, zigzags the family's Land Rover up a steep trail in Nevada's Virginia Mountains.

From the back seat, I can see Taylor's gull-like profile, the almost unwavering line from his sandy-blond bangs to his forehead to his prominent nose. His thinness gives him a wraithlike appearance, but when he's lit up about something (as he is most waking moments), he does not seem frail. He has spent the past two hours — the past few days, really — talking, analyzing, breathlessly evangelizing about nukes. We've gone back to the big bang and forward to mutually assured destruction and nuclear winter. In between are fission and fusion, Einstein and Oppenheimer, Chernobyl and Fukushima, matter and antimatter.

Kenneth steers the SUV past a herd of wild mustangs as we climb a series of progressively rougher and narrower dirt roads. This is the third time Taylor has coaxed his dad to these mountains so that he can beef up his collection of uranium ore — part of a broader stockpile of radioactive materials that the teenager has built into one of the most extensive in the world. Kenneth steers around a switchback, flushing a pair of quail, then halts the SUV in front of a small hole dug into the side of a mountain.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Taylor says, throwing open his door.

He leaps out and sprints toward the mine entrance, which is barricaded by a shiny new chainlink fence. "This was my mine!" he shouts. "It was my mine, and they fenced it off!"

The Bureau of Mine Safety has hung a sign on the fence: DANGER: UNSAFE MINE — STAY OUT, STAY ALIVE. The smaller print lists some of the dangers in abandoned mines: bad air, rattlesnakes, old explosives, rotten timbers, falling rocks.

"Okay, now, y'all ignore that," Taylor says, calming. He turns toward the truck to fetch the gear, scoffing. "Like any mine is going to be safe."

Taylor "discovered" the Red Bluff Mine the previous year while rifling through a 1953 geology thesis complete with fading Polaroid photos stapled to yellowing paper that he'd found in a forsaken corner of a library at the University of Nevada. Though the mine produced ore commercially for just a few years, the dirt that it cuts through still coughs up, Taylor says, "some of the hottest rocks in Nevada."

Taylor unloads a pickax and a shovel, flashlights, and three types of Geiger counter. He chides his dad for forgetting his radiation-detecting wristwatch and his ore-collecting buckets —"Looks like we'll have to be resourceful," he says — and heads for the fence.

He hoists himself lightly over the top, and Kenneth and I hand the gear to him and then clamber over the chainlink ourselves. When we enter the mine, the Geiger counter's ticking quickens slightly. It's late autumn and unseasonably warm — a good thing, since on warm days uranium mines tend to "exhale" radioactive radon gas generated by uranium's natural decay. In cooler weather, mines "hold their breath," as Taylor puts it, keeping more radon inside.

Taylor fills me in on mine terminology. The Red Bluff opening is an adit, meaning it enters the side of the mountain roughly horizontally (as opposed to a shaft, which enters a mountain at a vertical or steep incline). The darkness pulls in around us as we duck our heads and step inside; I can sense the weight of the mountain above. Swinging our flashlights, we see bats hanging on the support timbers, and rat feces scattered on the ground. (Unmentioned on the sign is the potentially fatal hantavirus, spread via rodent urine and droppings.)

We reach a winze, a side tunnel that angles steeply downward. Though winzes can drop hundreds of feet, Taylor's light follows a sloping plywood chute to another adit only six feet below. He reaches down with his Geiger counter's probe, and the ticking picks up considerably.

"Something interesting down there," he says, already handing his light and radiation detector to his dad. He hops onto the wooden chute and slides down; Kenneth passes the gear to Taylor and we slide down after him.

Taylor quickly finds the radiation source. It's a yellow vein of uranium running diagonally along the brown wall of the tunnel, crossed by a greenish trickle of water. When we move our lights away from the stream, it continues to glow faintly. "Ooh, man, radioactive water," Taylor says as he shifts his flashlight beam from side to side, studying the tiny green-gold river from all angles, transfixed. I find myself watching his fascination with a fascination of my own.

"Liquid uranium," the teenager says. "I wonder if it's coming off some autunite up above. It's a fluorescent mineral, hydrated calcium uranyl phosphate; pretty rare 'round here."

We continue deeper into the tunnel until we reach a frail-looking brace. Taylor inspects the rotted wooden beams and cross brace, then shines his light down the curving passageway; the tunnel's end is out of sight.

"We might-could go back farther," Taylor says, using one of the double-modal expressions that attest to his Southern roots. "But it looks unstable to me." Kenneth gratefully concurs, and we retrace our path toward the blast of daylight that meets us at the mine's entrance. Once outside, Taylor climbs the fence and hoists his leg over. As he does, his Geiger counter probe brushes his thigh and emits a loud squawk.

"Huh?" he says. "What's going on with my leg?" He hops down and runs the probe up and down his jeans. The detector shrieks. He looks worried.

"My pant legs are highly radioactive," he says. "This is actually scaring me." He climbs down the other side of the fence and quickly unbuckles his belt. "Uh, Dad, can you run and get the pancake probe real quick?" he says, yanking his belt from its loops and quickly pulling off shoes and jeans. He's standing in his boxer shorts when Kenneth trots back from the Land Rover with the more sensitive instrument. Taylor snatches it from his father's hands and runs the large, flat disk along his bare leg. When it doesn't bleep, Taylor looks relieved. He goes over to the SUV and tests the seats, which are clean. Then he gingerly lifts his jeans and scans them. Halfway down the right thigh, the detector picks up the contamination, an invisible oval patch three or four inches long.

"It's not alpha radiation, which should rule out the mine as a source," Taylor says. "But it also rules out my pants shielding me. I could have absorbed a significant dose. That's kind of embarrassing." He holds the pants up to the sun. "I don't get it. They were clean this morning when I put 'em on. My skin's not radioactive, so it's not loose contamination, which makes me think it's been on the pants for a while. But — how? Generally, my jeans are not radioactive to start the day."

"Where does it come from?" Kenneth says a few minutes later as we sit in a shady nook watching Taylor dig through the mine's tailings pile. It's a question that Kenneth and Tiffany have asked themselves many times. Kenneth is a Coca-Cola bottler, a skier, an ex–football player. Tiffany is a yoga instructor.

"Neither of us knows a dang thing about science," Kenneth says.

"Sweet Jesus!" Taylor yells from atop the mound of yellow earth. "This is exceedingly radioactive dirt!" He's wearing my spare shorts now, the bunched-up waist cinched, with his belt, around his slender torso. His pickax and shovel lie on the ground next to the clicking Geiger counter as Taylor claws with his hands through the dirt. He bends from his waist, knees locked, his thin, sun-deprived legs descending through swirls of yellow dust and landing inside untied sneakers.

Kenneth squints and wipes a bit of sweat from his forehead as he watches his son dig. He's in his late fifties, tall and solidly built, with smoky-yellow hair that's transitioning to gray. He has a laid-back, aw-shucks sociability acquired at a lifetime's worth of Southern barbecues. Like most of the Arkansas business class, he's conservative in both politics and manners, though he breaks from that mold in terms of open-mindedness. Ask him a question of any consequence and you'll almost always get a short pause as he ponders the matter and then a considered answer.

"Taylor," Kenneth says, "I've got a pair of gloves in the car."

"Don't need 'em," Taylor yells down, his glance carrying a hint of annoyance. "You don't wear gloves when you're prospecting for uranium."

"Why not?" Kenneth asks. I wonder that myself.

"I don't know; it's just not done," he says, continuing to dig. Then, a few seconds later, he adds: "Uranium is radioactive, but there's very low radiation activity per the amount of material. You'd have to work in mines a long time for it to hurt you. And it's not soluble, so you can wash it right off; it won't go into solution inside your body."

Taylor takes a couple of whacks with the pick and pulls out a softball-size yellow rock. He checks it with the detector, which screams its approval. "Code yellow!" he shouts joyfully. "Whoa, that's a hottie!"

He sets the rock aside and goes back to digging, using the probe to guide the path of his pick and shovel and, mostly, his hands. The clicks quicken to the point that they become one long bleep. "This is going crazy up here!" he yells, prying out another chunk. "Look at how bright it is!" he says, holding the rock up to the sun as he puts the probe to it. "And appropriately radioactive for its color."

The deeper he goes, the more excited he gets, calling out a play-by-play commentary that veers to flights of fantasy and speculation. "This is the highest-grade uranium I've ever found! I wonder — could this be the infamous natural radian barite, the king of all the hot rocks? Nobody's been able to find it before in the U.S., but who knows? Maybe I'll be the first ...

"I gotta keep digging!"

Almost from the beginning, it was clear that the older of the Wilsons' two sons would be a difficult child to keep on the ground. "Taylor has always been obsessed with things," Kenneth says as he watches his son scrape away at the earth. "Whatever he got interested in, he just went crazy with it, nonstop. Even getting him to eat was a big trick. Sometimes it still is."

Taylor Ramon Wilson was born in May of 1994 in Texarkana, Arkansas, just east of the Texas-Arkansas border. From the moment he could crawl, he wanted to dig. At their first home, Kenneth built Taylor a sandbox, but it was too constraining for the toddler; he needed a larger swath of diggable terrain. As soon as he could haul himself out of the box, he started tearing up the lawn, digging holes, pouring water in them to make mud, then digging some more.

When he was four, the digging segued into an interest in construction. That in itself isn't unusual for boys. But Taylor the preschooler wanted nothing to do with toy dump trucks or other miniature construction equipment. He played with real traffic cones, real barricades. At age four, he donned a reflective orange vest, yellow boots, and a hard hat, then stood in front of the house directing traffic.

"The neighbors all knew him," Kenneth says. "He'd set up at the side of Wade Trail and stand there with those big gloves waving cars around the barricades. He was shy back then, but that sort of thing seemed to bring him out of his shell. He loved it when people waved or stopped to visit with him."

As Taylor's fifth birthday approached, the family moved to a larger home in a new cul-de-sac neighborhood on Texarkana's far north side. Taylor told his parents he wanted a crane for his birthday. Kenneth brought him to a store and showed him the toy cranes, but Taylor saw that as an act of provocation. "No!" he yelled, stomping his foot. "I want a real one."

This is about the time almost any other father would have put his own foot down. Instead, Kenneth called a friend who owned a construction company, and on Taylor's birthday, a six-ton crane pulled up to the party. The kids sat on the operator's lap and took turns at the controls, guiding the boom as it swung above the rooftops on Northern Hills Drive.

To the assembled parents, all wearing hard hats, the Wilsons' parenting style must have seemed curiously indulgent. Later, when Taylor's interests turned toward more perilous pursuits, the Wilsons' approach to childrearing would appear to some outsiders as dangerously laissez-faire and even irresponsible.

"Some of what people were saying got back to us," Tiffany says, "and even our friends were sometimes critical, though that usually came through in the form of jokes and kidding. But luckily, other people's opinions don't weigh on us that much. Not if they get in our way of what we want to do."

If Kenneth and Tiffany were winging it at first, as they both admit they were, their parenting strategy was, in fact, evolving into something uncommonly intentional.

What they wanted to do, Kenneth says, was "help our children figure out who they are, and then do everything we could to help them nurture that."

Taylor eventually settled on an interest that would stretch that nurturing capacity to almost inconceivable extremes. But in his preschool years, what Taylor would become was anyone's guess. He hopscotched exuberantly from one infatuation to the next with a deep-focus, serial monogamy. In pictures and videos from that era, Taylor's brother, Joey, three years younger, is typically smiling and engaged, whatever the situation. Taylor, by contrast, looks lost when he's not in costume. But when he's playing a part — excavator operator, archaeologist with metal detector, carpenter with suspenders and tool belt — he looks purposeful and confident.

Outside the Red Bluff Mine, Taylor has chucked his equipment aside and is using his bare hands to scoop out a hole he's been working on for the past half hour. "I think I'm getting closer now to some sort of bulk radiation source," he shouts, continuing his progress report. He scoops and digs some more, exposing the edges of a basketball-size chunk of ore.

"This here's what's gonna make it all worth it today," he says, not looking up. "This could be, like, a thousand-dollar specimen. It may take an archaeological dig to get it out, but we'll manage it — even if we gotta die trying!"

Kenneth chuckles as Taylor grabs the pickax, takes a few whacks, then works the tool under the rock, trying to pry it loose. He watches his son with bemusement, occasionally checking the time and glancing toward the sun, which is settling closer to the western horizon.

"Tay, you fixing to dig all the way to China?"

"If China's got uranium," Taylor says, standing up and looking his dad in the eye, "I will gladly dig that far!"

CHAPTER 2

THE PRE-NUCLEAR FAMILY

Both taylor and joey were born at home with a midwife, not a common practice in the American South. Midway through her first labor, Tiffany began second-guessing her decision; the baby did not seem to want to come out. "I was panicking," Tiffany says. "But the midwife said, 'Once you start pushing, it will get easy.'"

It didn't get easy. As Tiffany pushed, the midwife reached in and felt Taylor's arm — and promptly got punched. Taylor was pushing back, apparently fighting to stay in the womb. In a struggle that went on for more than an hour, the midwife kept grabbing Taylor's arm, and Taylor kept wriggling away. Finally, she managed to get a grip on him and pull him out.

Moments later, the placenta followed, but it wasn't intact; it was broken up, smashed to pieces. "That's when the midwife freaked out," Tiffany says. "She said it was unbelievable and amazing that this baby survived. She kept calling Taylor the miracle baby, and she said she'd never had a kid fight like that. And I do believe," Tiffany says, laughing, "that was one of the last times anyone was able to force Taylor to do anything he didn't want to do."

A slightly built brunette, Tiffany looks about a decade younger than she is. She's fit and energetic and almost unfailingly upbeat, although a small line of worry ("Courtesy of Taylor," she says) has crept between her eyes. Her parents grew up in Hope, Arkansas (the hometown of President Bill Clinton), but moved to Texarkana so Tiffany's father could pursue business opportunities.

Southern Arkansas is deeply conservative country, and Tiffany's father was a strict charismatic Christian. "When he was a kid, he'd get out at the picket fence with his Bible and stay all afternoon, preaching sermons," Tiffany says. But her mother, Nell, was a freethinker who reacted to her own conservative upbringing by turning to alternative religions and unconventional approaches to health and wellness. Under her mother's influence, Tiffany grew up as a rare granola child in the 1970s Deep South.

A manic entrepreneur, Robert Bearden spread himself thin with numerous ventures: cattle and construction, nightclubs and barbecue joints. Tiffany's mother believed her husband would work himself to death, but it was Nell who had the first major health scare. When Tiffany was only three, her mother was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The doctors gave her radium implants — and five years to live.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Boy who Played with Fusion"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Tom Clynes.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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