Down Below
When he scrounged up just enough to buy a ticket, he could feel a flutter of nervousness in his chest, second-guessing at the last minute whether this was the right thing to do. But as the train pulled into the Hadestown station, the kernel of doubt vanished, and he could tell that he'd made the right choice.
Down below it was hot, almost sweltering, nothing like the chill of winter above. Down below it was lit with neon and cathode, an electrifying glare that dulled his senses until he adjusted. And down below, the man knew, he'd never worry about hunger, the cold, or shelter again.
In no time he was in the system, papers signed and stamped, and given a uniform. Then he was made to work, and so he did, his thoughts slowly drowning the more he swung the pick.
And if he had lingering regrets, concerns about the endless hours and little pay, well, down below you never worried about that either—there was simply no time to.