Page 9 of Our Own Light

“So, can you teach me how to be a proper miner then?”

Floyd smiled in what looked to be a playful manner. “Well, maybe not a proper miner, but I can learn you how to be a regular one.”

“Regular is fine,” Oliver said, now smiling, too. “Preferable, even.”

Oliver marveled at how wonderful it was to connect with someone so easily. He hadn’t expected that when he’d set up the meeting with Frederick in the city. He had only been hoping to escape from his past. And his future.

Truthfully, Oliver had assumed that he’d never really bond with anyone in a coal town, which had been part of the appeal. He was tired of rejection. Over the years, Oliver had been rejected by his parents so many times, in so many ways, whether they had been cold to him when he had needed comfort, even from something as simple as a skinned knee, or whether they had been completely unsympathetic to the struggles he’d sometimes faced with his schoolwork, like his inability to finish his assignments.

Oliver’s heart simply hadn’t been able to take it anymore.

But maybe he’d been wrong about not bonding with anyone here. Floyd seemed to be friendly enough, at least. And Oliver was plenty happy about that.

Floyd tapped Oliver’s foot with his own.

“Hurry up, slow poke.”

“Right.” Oliver picked up another strawberry. “Sorry.”

Throughout the afternoon, Oliver followed Floyd around the mine. Floyd showed him how to blast the coal seams (though Oliver hadn’t touched the blasting powder himself) and break the coal. While they worked, Floyd taught Oliver about some of the other roles that were fulfilled by children, too—like spraggers, who controlled the speed of the coal cars, and mule drivers, whose task was obvious from their title.

By the end, they hadn’t collected much coal—maybe only half a car’s worth—which had Oliver worried, especially when Floyd informed him that they weren’t paid by the hour, but by the weight of their coal car, but Floyd told Oliver that it was fine. Still, Oliver’s stomach sank when he saw everyone else’s coal cars and compared them to Floyd’s. He offered that they not split the money and instead, Floyd could keep the entirety of their earnings, but Floyd refused.

While walking to Floyd’s house, Oliver’s stomach continued to feel full in a nauseating sort of way, though he tried not to let it show. He couldn’t help but feel horrible that Floyd had taken the time to train him and had made less money as a result. Having someone show him such kindness still felt so foreign.

Around ten minutes later, they arrived, and when they walked through the threshold, Oliver’s heart practically leapt up into his throat from the surprise presence on the other side. Oliver was very much not prepared to be confronted with a little girl’s high-pitched shriek.

“Baby girl!” Floyd exclaimed, throwing his arms around her. “How was school?”

Seeing the way she beamed up at Floyd had Oliver’s heart melting, even while he was still frozen in fear from having been completely frazzled by the child’s scream. While Oliver was listening to Floyd’s child tell him about school, a very pretty woman approached.

“Hi, I’m Effie,” she said. “Are you Oliver?”

“Oh, Floyd already told you about me?”

Effie smiled. “Yes, last night.”

“I must have made an impression. Hopefully not a bad one.”

Floyd pushed himself to stand. “I had to explain why I was late coming home.”

“So, yes, a bad one,” Oliver lamented in a playful manner.

“Effie already started on the ‘Wanted’ posters,” Floyd teased.

Before Oliver could respond, Josephine piped up.

“What happened to your hands?”

Oliver looked at them. God, they really were nasty looking, weren’t they? They were still hurting, too—throbbing uncomfortably, warmth radiating from the skin.

“I hurt them when I was working,” Oliver explained.

“I thought you could fix him up, Effie,” Floyd said.

Oliver said, “Floyd said you might have—”

“Goose grease,” Effie finished before turning toward the kitchen. “I remember Floyd’s mama treating his hands with it when we were kids.”

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