The pickaxe digs into the crevice, then sticks. I curse under my breath as I struggle to yank it back out. Finally it comes free, along with a tiny sliver of what looks like possibly useable ore. I pick it up and examine it, then set it on the meager pile I have managed to accumulate while trying to ignore the larger piles of those around me.

I sigh and begin the process again, but then the horn sounds. I drop the pickaxe and bend to gather my ore. It does not take long. The mine superintendent is not going to be pleased with me but I force myself to stand still as he moves along the line.

He stops at each worker, counting their ore, complimenting or punishing, marking their tally on their chest with a piece of charcoal. The older workers have the most, of course, but they have also lost all hope. They stand without expression, gaunt dirty bodies and soulless eyes, reacting neither to praise nor punishment expect an involuntary yelp at the feel of the switch.

The superintendent comes to me, sneers at my offering, raises a couple of welts on my thighs with the switch accompanied by cries of pain from me, tallies my ore on my breast, moves on to the next. My ore doesn’t even fill one bucket. I carry it to the smelter, dump the ore into the pile, then resume my place.

The horn sounds again, and we shuffle in a straggling line to the dining area. I take my place, kneeling in front of a trough. There is little to eat – a few wilted greens, what looks like it was once possibly a radish. I wolf it down.

Once the meal is finished, we shuffle to the bathing room. We take turns on the chamber pots, then are chained standing along the wall. Men douse us with buckets of water, rinsing away a layer of black dirt, which seems pointless to me but, of course, I don’t say anything.

On, then, to the sleeping cell. I kneel on my pallet of straw and wait for someone to lock my collar to the ring on the wall with a length of chain, then settle in to the straw. I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning and scratching new itches from the vermin that share my bed. Some undetermined time later I feel a touch on my back and have to force myself not to groan. I shift my weight back, raising my rear into the air and spreading my legs.

I feel him enter me, hear his grunting, press my face and arms into the floor to brace myself as I silently weep. He finishes with a long groan, removes himself, and I crumble back to the ground, curled up and shaking as his spunk dribbles down my leg.

The horn seems to sound before I manage to sleep. I force myself up and kneel. A man comes by presently, detaches the chain from my collar. I stand and wait until all the workers are in line and chained together. We shuffle back to the mine and take our places. I pick up my pickaxe and, when the horn blows, I strike. The pickaxe digs into the crevice, then sticks. I curse under my breath as I struggle to yank it back out.

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