The coal chute was a steep, forty-foot incline of riveted boiler plate, coated in a slick layer of coal dust, grease, and frozen water drops. Bram went first, his broad shoulders wedging between the steel sides, his boots finding purchase on the angle-iron crossbars welded to the plate every two feet. Len followed right away behind. He held Tav’s belt with his sound right hand to steady the trembling boy whenever his burned boots slipped on the coal slime.
Len’s left arm screamed with pain. Every time his body jolted against the iron walls, the horsehair stitches in his forearm pulled taut. It sent sharp, white-hot needles of agony tearing through his torn muscle sheath. The cold air rushed down the chute like an icy river, catching the zinc carbolic smell from his bandages and whipping it into his face. But under the metered rhythm of Long Breath, he kept his jaw clenched. He drove his heels into the cleats, his Surefoot baseline keeping his balance centered over his hips.
Behind them, far down in the cellar, an iron door slammed shut. It was followed by the distant, muffled shout of a technician discovering the opened hopper.
“Climb,” Bram grunted from above, his boots kicking free a shower of hard coal grit that stung Len’s eyes. “Don’t look down. Catch the crossbars with your toes. If you fall, you take us both down the slide.”
