The Healer by Michael Blumlein

starting to get to him, and he huddled in a ball against the rib, knees drawn to his chest to conserve heat. His teeth began to chatter, and every now and then he heard the disconcerting moan of shifting rock. It was not hard to imagine that the mine was speaking, and it did not sound happy, seemed in fact displeased. He felt so stupid for getting lost. So cold and frightened.
    He had never been in darkness so complete. It seemed like something new on earth, to night as night was to day. It swallowed up his cries for help, making them sound futile and pathetic. How could anything hope to penetrate such blackness? And little by little a new fear arose.
    All this noise of his might not be so smart. It might be stirring something up that shouldn't be stirred, waking something that shouldn't be woken. His imagination? Maybe, but maybe not. There were many things that skulked and lurked in darkness.
    He began to shiver, small involuntary tremors in his arms and legs and chest. And then he started having trouble breathing. The stale, heavy air offered little in the way of nourishment, but more than that, the mine seemed to be closing in on him. He could feel its imponderableweight of rock, millions upon millions of tons of it, pressing against his ribs, bearing down and constricting him. It was as if the mountain itself sat upon his chest, squeezing out the air, and in a panic he started hyperventilating.
    He couldn't understand why they hadn't found him yet. Surely by now the shift was over and they knew that he was lost. But maybe not; maybe the men were still at work. He had no idea how much time had passed, except that it seemed forever.
    He was shivering freely now, and his fingers and toes were numb. How much longer would he last? People died like this, and he didn't want to die. He gulped air and took deep breaths, trying to master his fear, forcing himself to calm down and breathe slower.
    And now the cold began to get to him. It had seeped deep into his body, and now it started working on his mind. He began to have trouble thinking clearly. A lethargy came over him. He felt more tired than he had reason to be. Tired and sluggish and apathetic. He began having thoughts not of rescue, but of escape and release.
    His eyelids drifted slowly downward, then closed. Terrified, he snapped them open, knowing he had to fight the urge to sleep. But seconds later, they closed again, and he promised himself it would only be a minute. Just enough time for a little nap.
    It lasted longer than he planned, and would have lasted longer still, too long, had it not been broken by a dream. It was a bothersome, annoying dream: a swarm of insects was buzzing in his ears. He tried in vain to swat them away and stop the buzzing, but the sound persisted, and then they, or something, was jostling him. This was even more annoying, and he shrank from it and tried to get away. All he wanted was to be left alone.
    And then a voice was saying, “There you are,” and then a light was shining in his face.
    â€œBeen wondering where you wandered off to. Guess you forgot rule number one.”
    It was very real sounding to be a dream, though waking up to it was quite a struggle. He finally got his eyes to open but couldn't get his tongue to work. His lips and jaw were numb.
    The voice turned out to be Slivey's; clustered around him were other men, Covert among them. No one looked particularly alarmed or worried about his being lost. If anything, and this was strange, they seemed amused.
    â€œUp you get now,” Slivey said, offering his hand. “No more sleeping on the job. Shift's over. Everybody's tired and hungry. Time to brass out.”

He was having dinner in the mess hall several days later when Vecque entered. They had not spoken since the incident in the mine, although everybody else seemed to know about it, and so he assumed she did. She wound her way past the tables to the serving line, getting teased by the miners in the process.