A shovel and a pair of flip-flops, his shirt tucked in and
hair catching the black dust in the air he strained against the weight at the
end of the stick, laying the coal gently in a pile. The air was thick with the
sparkling specks and he thought about the layer resting on his lungs. An
afternoon here couldn’t be much worse though than a cigarette or two, which his
father puffed on between shifts. There was only one shovel. They had cleared a
space for the winter’s fuel by stacking the mountain of manure even higher in
the shed, up to the rafters and electrical wires hanging above. His father had
climbed barefoot up the stack of dried bok
and mud to clear a landing space for the bricks his son heaved. There would be
heat for food and heat for the comfort within the walls beyond.
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