Author Note: The following scene could probably merit anywhere between a PG and PG-13 rating, due to some harsher imagery. The scene is based on the experience of children in mines during the Industrial Revolution. Err... so don't hurt me or something.
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He stood on the floor of the lift, dwarfed and smothered by the tall forms that overshadowed him, staring up at the rapidly diminishing square of light that he knew to be sunlight. Slowly suffocating, his vision filled with a haze of dust that left him spluttering, his throat parched and breath wheezing, he had a sudden passing image of being buried alive.
It had been his first thought to run the plan by Poquito. It was strange, having someone to run to for help and encouragement; it was something he wasn't used to, and perhaps never would. Now buried in darkness, he remembered acutely the scent of warm sawdust just hewn and the pleasant sight of the morning sunrays shimmering on the fur of Poquito and his father in their quaint little workshop. Jim's exuberance as he proposed his plan seemed distant now; Poquito had shared Jim's enthusiasm, but Carlito had been more than skeptical. He had shaken a hot brand in the human boy's young face, pursing him as to whether he had permission for such a wild fancy. Inevitably, Poquito could only wave his good friend luck at the doorway, and Jim was left to face down his decision, alone.
It had only struck the boy now just how lonely and frightening that decision would be. The youth in him was ready to collapse into a fit of heart-wrenching tears, in hopes that Momma would came and rescue him; or to run sobbing back to the sunlight, clutching his ears with eyes shut tight from the horrors he had seen and was soon to witness. He wanted to quail in the stolid shadows of the men that stood around him, to claw at their pantlegs until they freed him from his self-imposed nightmare. But it was precisely those stoic forms, faces encrusted with the stains of wear and tear and hands scarred beyond reason, that kept him standing where he was, face drawn and hands shaking at his sides as his eyes darted around him and back up the shaft where the light was vanishing. With a breath, the light was gone. There was no turning back.
The lift came to a sudden jarring halt that almost threw Jim to his knees. Subconsciously he reached out and grabbed the fabric of a nearby trouser to steady himself, and immediately pulled away as a leering face looked down upon him. The men were filing out of the lift now, and Jim was tagging along, trying not to look horribly lost. In truth, he was completely out of place, and this hit him as he looked around the level they had entered.
What little light there was came from lanterns strung out across the walls, which cast grotesque shapes against the jagged walls and low ceiling. Everywhere laborers bustled; Jim caught a glimpse of some that could be no older than himself, deadened eyes gleaming out from blackened skin. Blood dripped from dirty open wounds; men yelled at one another across ncomprehendable distances; children sniffled and coughed; pickaxes twanged as they struck rock. Amidst all this dirt, noise, and pain, Jim stood looking lost in his clean breeches and tunic. Others glanced at him as he stood hesitating, but quickly moved on; he was of no concern, no special notice.
Jim looked about for anyone that could possibly help his cause, and spotted just the being; a tall alien in a pressed uniform, clutching a clipboard and barking at the laborers in-between scribbling on the clipboard with a second set of arms. The boy approached the alien, who completely overlooked Jim. Impatient, Jim tugged on the end of the clipboard, so the alien was looking straight down into Jim's face.
The alien seemed to take in the boy's appearance and grunted. "What do you want?" he growled none too friendly.
"My name is Jim Hawkins, and I'd like to fill in for my father."
"Name?"
"Uh… Leland."
The alien rifled through the clip of papers. "He's on sick leave. You're taking his shift?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright then, John, get out of my face and go to work. You're on level nine with the other children, tunnel on your right, one break at noon, half wages, whine and you're out. Clear?"
"Err… yes, sir. And it's Jim, sir."
"Scram, Jack."

Jim found himself shuffled in a crowd of children of various ages, anywhere from preteen down to toddler. He felt like he was back at school around going-home time when everyone would crowd the door, but it was different this time, much different. All the children where waxen faced, their skin so bruised it was hard to make out the true color, lungs so filled with coal dust that every breath was a stabbing pain. Some had visible welts on or around their backs, and the cause of such an affliction was far beyond Jim's sheltered imagination. They had no protective clothing of any kind; most of their clothing was tattered and torn, and some of the boys did not even have tunics. They were all huddled and shivering, voices low as they waited for their shift to begin. Furtive glances were cast in his direction, but no attempts at conversation were made. There was no sympathy for the new kid; it was all too common.
All of a sudden a murmur swept through the room like tongues of flame, and movement flickered as the children pressed forward. The sound of chains clinking and wood scraping against rock tinkled in Jim's ears. He found himself pushed and elbowed to the front, where he was face to face with rope. Out of the corner of his eye he could see where the passage led off into an enclosed tunnel; too small for a grown man, but just right for a child on his knees. The rope was wrapped around his chest as he stared at the children crawling through the passageway, skin scraped raw on the bedrock, boxes behind them.
He was pushed forward again, and he felt the weight of the coal-filled box as a blow to the chest. The rope burned his skin where it rubbed against his tunic, and tears stung his eyes as he reflexively tried to lunge away, only to pull the box slowly behind him. A moment's hesitation wasn't afforded; he was shoved on his knees and he began crawling through the passage. Whatever light he still held slowly faded from his vision, as he seemed to crawl across the pages of infinity, the rocks clawing at his bare knees and hands, the strain of the rope slowly sapping out his energy.
The tunnel could have gone on forever for all he knew. It twisted into separate passageways, up and down, left and right; always he groped for the box being tugged along by another in front of him, trying to keep pace and direction. Thoughts could not be staged and put together, just flashes of memory, but nothing could quite compare; the darkness and claustrophobia of hiding under his bed, waiting for his mother to find him in silent glee; getting caught in the rain and accidentally falling on his knees; somehow he couldn't place his experience among them. Instead he tried to stay on one image: his father in the sick bed, the smell of musty cologne and the faded get-well cards in the moonlight.
The tunnel ended. He was pulled out by many small clutching fingers and palms, the burning rope of the harness slipped off. The other children scattered, all with their own loads. Jim tugged on his after the others, a flash of happy memory of tugging on a toy box crossing his mind. There were adults there, tall and faceless, who took the boxes away. But there were more boxes.
It seemed to go on for eternity in an endless carousel; or at least, that was how it felt for Jim, only seven years old and taking the world (or rather a large box of coal) on his small shoulders. Finally he collapsed at noon with the other children, all pale-faced and wheezing, some immediately passed out. And that was how Kent found him.
The miner had been passing by on his way to lunch break and somehow the sight of the Hawkins boy caught his eye; he immediately stopped and did a double-take, staring abashed at the happy little Inn boy he had seen not too long before now covered in coal, dirt, and blood. Without a thought he stormed over and kneeled down to Jim's level.
"Jim! Heavens, is that you?"
The boy blinked numbly back at Kent, who seemed to be fading in and out of focus. "Mr. Kent?" Jim muttered.
"Jesus… Jim, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at home? Does your mother know you're here?"
Jim slowly shook his head, but stopped; it made his head feel as if it were filled with hammers, all pounding against his skull. "I'm… helping Daddy. He can't work. I am."
"Oh… Jim, you wouldn't help your dad any by getting yourself killed, you're not cut out for this…" He bit his lip. His break was slowly ticking away, and he could think of nothing that could get Jim out of the mines without getting himself sacked. Kent could see that Jim obviously had only the best intentions for helping his father and his family, just all the wrong ideas; but there was no changing Jim's mind, no going back. "Listen, you just wait until my shift is over, okay? Come up to level three and I'll take you home."
Home? Jim found himself nodding, and then the familiar face was gone.

Down in the mines, there was no sense of night and day. It was all dark, all lantern-lit. There were no windows, no little holes Jim could peek out of and check if the sun still hung in the sky. He kept driving on, shuffled between here and there wherever his efforts were needed, and soon his knees were scraped raw, his clothing soiled and his hair slick with oil, skin grimy with sweat and coal dust. Although it hurt he didn't cry, and though he got tired he didn't sit. The end of the shift couldn't have come any sooner nevertheless; he was being pushed with the other children back to the lift, all mirrors of Jim's own fatigue and pain. Kent found him stumbling around on level three, and though his muscles boiled from lifting pickaxes all day, he picked up Jim and carried him out. Back to the lift, back to ground level, out into the moonlight. Jim felt the breeze as it brushed across his flushed cheeks, and the fresh air was almost painful to his clogged lungs. He coughed and wheezed, then shut his eyes. He was too tired to talk, as much as he wanted to. He swore in all his young life he had never been so tired and never would again; he thought only of taking a long nap when he got home in his soft, warm bed, Patches at his feet; and perhaps the proud face of his father smiling over him, now that his son had grown up.