Chapped
Hilbert Dirksen released the searchlight and removed his gloves; they were worthless in the cold. He blew on his chapped hands, reminding himself that when he got off-duty he needed to rub in some salve.
That did nothing except remind him of his misery, so he put his gloves back on. The tower was least favorite duty. The other guards constantly berated him for his lack of rhythm. He didn't care. No one ever escaped.
Well, technically, they did. Like tonight! He noticed a shadow when he paused for a moment. Not his business. After all, the prisoners always returned.
a/n: 100 words according to word. This is a sequel to chapter 7 (lights)
