He raised his hand to show us the mark, perfect in its telling grief and glimpse of horror.
Red. Calloused over. Swollen. Broken through again.
Perfectly round and perfectly centered. Gouged there from hours on hours, days on days, months on months of digging graves. Four last week. Many before.
It isn't his job.
Only the mark on his palm remains, the lines engraved in his forehead, and the words "but it's good..." This is just how it is here. His face is calm in its resignation.
This is just how it is.
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