I’ve been digging for hours. The scree under my feet rattles and scatters as I swing my pick against the temporary walls of my confinement. I couldn’t see any ore if I was looking for any. Even the happy glimmer of a gold vein would be lost in the total black. The air is heavy and stagnant, and it slows the pick’s blows. I can hear the clanging bouncing off the curves and corners in the tunnel. The fear in the air spurs me. I started digging hours ago to escape it, as I entered the shaft. It’s dogged me every step of the way. It’s a part of me the same way my shrieking muscles and aching bones are a part of me. It’s an oppressive force screaming “Turn around!” at the top of ethereal lungs through a fanged mouth. But when I look, my headlamp’s feeble beam reveals only a collapsing tunnel, with a lonely hole centered in the middle of the dirt and dust. My pick bounces off of the wall, dull and blunted. I turn, and collapse. I curl up in a fetal ball. I have no idea where I am. I’m the canary in this coal mine.