He was a worker. An ordinary worker who had a job at the local mine, just like all of the other residents. He slung a tattered jacket on, and made his way outside.

He started his short journey towards the mine. It seemed to him, that the further he moved away from civilization, the more civilized people became. His residence was located midway between the rich and the poor. But out in the desert, where he was surrounded by a small handful of workers, he felt more at peace with himself than anywhere else. The foreman ushered him into the mine, and he descended deeper into the guts of the earth.

Along the walls of the cave, white lines had been etched carefully with chalk. They held no significant meaning for an outsider, but he knew the reason behind them. It was a death tally. Whenever a worker died, another mark would be added. The carvings seemed overpowering, and almost spanned the entire width of the cave.