I turned the almanac pages. The moon and weather of all the year’s days were there; moons with horns and faces like folk; weather flags flying red and white and black. An Indian doctor sat on the back cover. A feather grew on his head, and he held a giant bottle and a mullein leaf in his hands. I was thinking Mother ought to take this tonic for her sick spells when I heard a knocking, sharp, and steady, and near. Two rocks were being struck together. It was Fletch hammering I knew, hammering the thing he had carried in his fist. I went again into the far room, standing on a chair so as to see the mantel end to end. A dust track lay by the pin pear. I hadn’t noticed it before. Fletch had balanced himself on one leg to reach the dynamite-cap pouch. I jumped to the floor and ran into the yard calling.

A rock thumped somewhere. I searched, sick with fear. I shouted.

Suddenly the earth shook. It was like a rifle-gun being fired into the ground at my feet. A cry came from under the house. I fell to my knees, looking beneath. Fletch crawled toward me, out of a smoke of dust. He came holding his right hand forward, a gore of blood dripping. Two fingers hung by skin threads.

I stayed on my knees, not moving, not being able to move. I heard Mother’s agonized cry. I heard Uncle Samp’s heavy tread. Running feet clattered the road. Neighbor women came, aprons flying. Fletch was caught up in arms. Voices were shrill, saying what to do.

“Spider webs quick, to stop the bleed.”

“Lamp sut, I recommend.”

“Get a handful o’ fresh dirt. Dig under the doorsill. Dig down to the clean.”

“Tie them fingers in place. They’ll grow back.”

Jace Haggin came, his face stark with sorrow. “Run and fotch Father from the mine,” I begged. “Run and tell.”

Jace turned to go. “I run fast,” he said.

Fletch dozed on a bed, his right hand uncovered upon a pillow. Darb Sorrels leaned over him, studying the hand, and then went to sit before the fire with Uncle Samp, Kell Haddix, and Arlie Crouch. He threshed in the small chair. Jace Haggin squatted on the hearth, and Old Bartow meowed softly, for Jace was stroking his back. Kell was talking. “In July we got six days’ work a week,” he was saying. “Now come February hit’s down to three. If ever they’s a time coal ought to sell hell-for-sartin, it’s this month. Working three days now. What’s hit going to be, come spring?” Kell and Arlie looked querulously at Darb, thinking he might know what was in store.

“Hit’s ontelling,” Darb said. “No use wearing your mind to rags a-worrying. I say take it as comes, fair or foul.”

“Twelve chaps in my house—” Kell began. His Adam’s apple leapt.

Father came into the room with a pan of water. He spoke quiet-like to Darb. “Reckon the fingers kin be saved?”