Stanley dug his shovel into the dirt. Hole number 45. “The forty-fifth hole is the hardest,” he said to himself.
But that really wasn’t true, and he knew it. He was a lot stronger than when he first arrived.
His body had adjusted somewhat to the heat and harsh conditions. Mr. Sir was no longer depriving him of water.
After having to get by on less water for a week or so, Stanley now felt like he had all the water he could want.
Of course it helped that Zero dug some of his hole for him each day, but that wasn’t as great as everyone thought it was.
He always felt awkward while Zero was digging his hole, unsure of what to do with himself.
Usually he stood around awhile, before sitting off by himself on the hard ground, with the sun beating down on him.
It was better than digging. But not a lot better. When the sun came up a couple of hours later, Stanley looked for “the thumb of God.”
The mountains were little more than dark shadows on the horizon.
He thought he could make out a spot where the top of one mountain seemed to jut upward, but it didn’t seem very impressive.
A short time later the mountains were no longer visible, hidden behind the glare of the sun, reflecting off the dirty air.
It was possible, he realized, that he was somewhere near where Kate Barlow had robbed his great-grandfather.
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