Control
Mine With Space
c
Uncle Hank’s truck rattled down the dirt road before sunrise, its headlights slicing through the mountain mist. I clung to the passenger door, the chill of the vinyl seat seeping through my jacket. He didn’t say much—just grunted at potholes and hummed along to the staticky radio. When we finally lurched to a stop, he tossed me a headlamp and a pickaxe heavier than my backpack. “Keep up,” he muttered, already trudging toward the shadowy mine entrance. The tunnel swallowed us whole. My boots skidded on slick rock, and the air smelled like wet iron. Uncle’s lamp bobbed ahead as he pointed at jagged walls. “See that? Quartz veins. Lazy miners miss ’em.” He spat tobacco, the sound echoing. I swung my pick, missed, nearly brained myself. He snorted. “Wrists loose, kid. Let the tool do the work.” By noon, my hands were raw, but my bucket held chunks of granite flecked with silver. Uncle squinted at one, cracked a rare grin. “Not bad. Your ma said you’d quit by lunch.” He pulled a dented flask from his coat, took a swig, handed it to me. The whiskey burned, but I didn’t cough. His nod was approval. We sat in silence, listening to the mountain groan, until he stood and slapped dust from his jeans. “Sun’s dropping. One more swing—hit where the light bends.” The pick struck true. A crack spiderwebbed up the wall, and something glinted in the rubble. Uncle crouched, wiped grime off a stone the color of storm clouds. “Moonstone,” he said quietly. “Rare out here.” He pressed it into my palm, calloused fingers rough as the rock. “Keep it. Reminds you—mining’s not just dirt and sweat. It’s secrets.” The drive back, he actually talked. Told me about the cave-in that took his dad, the years he spent digging alone. When we reached the house, he kept the engine running. “Next weekend?” I asked. He stared at the steering wheel, then nodded once. “Bring better boots.”
