Inside, a small room houses a metal ladder that descends into a hole in the floor. I follow Drummer down the ladder, and a trill of anticipation runs up my spine. I’m reminded of my trip down the cargo hatch, only this time, I’m not trying to escape. The shaft grows warmer with every floor we descend, and the scent of burned coal mingles with the smells of working bodies, grease, and seawater.

I’ve lost track of how many decks we’ve passed when we finally reach Boiler Room 6.

From my perch on the ladder, I see four grinning black dragons standing shoulder to shoulder, their triple furnaces blazing like two eyes and a mouth. Trimmers cart coal in wheelbarrows for the firemen to feed the dragons, while others sweep the floor plates or monitor valves and pipes and pulleys and, well, things I don’t have a name for. It’s another universe made of iron and fire and sweat and sinew, and, yes, light.

Drummer jumps lightly down to the metal floor grates, and I land beside him. “Welcome to Boiler Room 6.” He spreads his hand toward the dragons. “Aren’t they beauties?”

Our arrival causes a stir among the workers. Men of all ages size us up, though it’s hard to tell their expressions under the grime. One shakes Drummer’s hand, and others throw out greetings.

“Well, look what fell down the rabbit hole.” A fellow with biceps the size of my head claps me on the back so hard, it’s a wonder his hand doesn’t get trapped in my ribs.

Drummer bows to him and introduces us in cautious English: “Brandish, friend.”

Brandish pumps my hand. His hair is yellow, but the rest of him is coated in black, even his teeth. “Any friend of Drummer’s is a friend of mine, mucker.” His brogue is weathered and warm, the kind of voice that bounces children off knees. “Whenever Drummer’s around, we all get along. So, you rattlin’ our spirits today?”

Drummer, suddenly shy, waves him off. But then Brandish begins to stomp the floor and clap. Stomp-clap, stomp-clap-clap. Stomp-clap, stomp-clap-clap. Others follow, not just with their feet, but with shovels and whatever else they have free to bang.

Drummer’s head begins to bob, and his fringe falls into his eyes. He rolls up his sleeves. All the blackened faces seem to watch him, even those still turned toward the furnaces.

With a grin like a slice of melon, he hands me his whirling drum. “It would be my pleasure if you helped me.”

I give the instrument a tentative whirl. Tat-tat. Tat-tat.

“Faster.”

I match the stomp-clap of the men. Ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat.