He taps again.
“A bit more hollow than the other. I suppose that’s good?”
He nods. “The cave’s mouth might be thinner here.” He switches the hammer into his left hand and slams it against the spot with a sharp rap.
And nothing happens. He strikes the wall repeatedly for half an hour, going at it from all angles, with both arms, later using rock and striking other spots—and nothing happens. Not a thing besides a few flakes of rock off here and there.
I check the watch I keep in my bag and find it’s just past one o’clock in the afternoon.
“No one shouting for us,” I murmur, as I peel open my half-eaten Atkins bar.
I get a pinch to stop my stomach growling, pass the rest to him.
“Not yet, Finny.”
“I’m not Finny.”
“Yes you are.” He smiles at me as if we’re lifelong friends. “You’re very Finny.”
“You’re corny.”
He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, exhales so his shoulders seem to sink. “I’m going to try to swing a different way. See if that helps.”
“Knock yourself out.” I smirk, and he rubs at his forehead.
“I kind of want to,” he confesses.
Over the next few hours, we make slow-but-steady progress, flaking shards of rock away each time we strike the cave’s mouth. My muscles tremble and cry out in pain the more I use them.
I have hopes that if we chisel enough, larger chunks of rock will fall away…but that’s not so. As night falls outside our wretched burrow, I feel like my throat is being squeezed.
While the Carnegie swings his strong arm for the millionth time, I eat the third segment of my Atkins bar and fetch another for him. I sit on one of the scattered rocks that used to be the rubble pile and beckon him over.
He rejects the bar with a shake of his head, then walks to the stream to splash his face. After that, he positions h
imself below the stone and tries again to push it. He strains until his veins are bulging and a sheen of sweat shines on his back and shoulders.
And still…nothing. The stone blocking our exit is a large one, seemingly larger than the mouth of our burrow.
When my arms ache too much for me to lift them without groaning, I rub my face, and he turns to me.
“How ya doing, Siren?”
“Your arms must be made of steel. Mine are screaming bloody murder.”
“It’s not comfortable.” His face is serious and, I think, for the first time, perhaps a bit strained.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and then look up at the stone. “Do you think we could hear if they came calling?”
I’m talking to myself, really, but he nods. “I think so. But it’d be better if I could get that fucking rock moved.” My face must register my dislike of his language; he runs a hand back through his hair and has the good form to look sheepish. “Sorry.”
“I’m growing used to it—your sailor’s mouth.”
He bends down to get his water bottle, and I watch him guzzle from it. He drinks so quickly, it runs down his chin and throat. As he wipes it with the back of his hand, his gaze rests on me again. “You Catholic? Grew up Catholic?”
“Everyone is Catholic here, cradle to grave.”
He offers nothing of his own religious practices. I’d be surprised if he had any.