The frost bedded on the grass. Our breath rose from our throats, cast gold by our lanterns. We took our shovels, taller than all five of us, and we stabbed the dirt, pulling up roots and weeds. Our palms were bleeding–we weren’t callused like our daddies.

There was no casket, just a blanket of mud, and I lowered myself in the hole with Stuart from town to get a better look. The skeleton lay all crooked but he was smirking like he was glad to be found.

He had no name. But after that long, names don’t matter anymore.


Byron J. Kimball is a freelance tech writer based in Sacramento, California, where he lives with his partner and their dog. He enjoys playing guitar, sushi, and the occasional novel.