This is a story about the people who carried the work at Göbekli Tepe, more than ten thousand years ago, on a high limestone ridge in what is now southeastern Turkey. Mihal, eight summers old, runs through the work-yard with a pouch full of small treasures. A fox tooth, two split pistachio shells, a lark feather caught on the lip of the cistern.

Veshi presses microblades from a core of dark flint in a workshop that smells almost cold, his hands holding a bone rod the way his uncle's uncle held it, in a chain none of them know they belong to. Yelet walks the cleared ground above the dip with a flax rope wound twice around her wrist, measuring a triangle into the dust. Tepe, sixty winters at least, climbs slowly up from the quarry as he has every morning of a long life.

Over nearly an hour and a half of long-form storytelling, this is  ...