Thousand: Four Hundred Fifteen

aside. Bernie pops his head out and takes deep breaths, gives the grate one more shove, then scrambles free of the earth. It’s dark up top. Except for a night sky blasted with stars. No moon. You only know a cloud by the way it hides stars. And in the distance one light, yellow and weak, loomed over by humps of shadow. Could be trees, a porchlight. Bernie looks back down at the grate and the hole. Should he put it back? He really thinks about it. Nobody to say he has to. He rubs his hands together to warm