“You’re still here,” he says.
You wipe sweat and dirt from your brow with the back of your wrist.
“I told you,” you reply. “I have two dollars and sixty cents.”
Then you gesture at the walls. “And I have hands.”
Hinrich steps down into the pit, boots sinking slightly in the soil.
He presses his palm to the sod, testing the tightness, the density.
For a moment, he looks almost… respectful.
“This will be low,” he says, not criticizing, just observing.
“Low is warmer,” you answer.
He nods once, slow.
Then he surprises you by pulling a small sack from his coat.
He tosses it onto the ground near your feet.
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