Untitled Chapter

There were three cracks in the north wall. The third looked like a black wound slanting from overhead to the floor. Its edges were damp. When Jack touched it, the stone felt cold and slick. His father had stood here. His father had seen hope here. Then someone had turned that hope into a grave. Jack closed the journal and took up the short pick. The first blow cracked through the mine. The second. The third. Gray stone broke. Sparks flashed and vanished. Jack had no miner's tools and no miner's leisure. He had only hands hardened by war and a patience more vicious than hunger. After one hour, the crack widened. After two, blood slicked his palms. After three, the wall gave back a hollow sound. Jack stopped.