Mirror-holding nude and German text on forearm

Below, the tunnel smells of wet stone and something sweeter underneath. You tilt the glass toward the ceiling where the roof bolts sweat. The light is only a thin coin, but it finds the place where the rock has gone grey and thin, and in its reflection you see a faint blue lick along the seam, like breath on cold glass. Your mouth goes dry. Your grandmother used to say that truth is a fire that doesn't ask permission to burn, and that the mirror's only work is to show it to you before it shows itself to everyone else.

Hans is ten metres ahead with the water bucket and a joke ready. You say his name once, then again, louder than you have ever spoken on this level. He turns, laughing, then sees the glass held out flat in front of you like a shield. He drops the bucket. The men behind him are already running back toward the cage.

Afterwards the foreman stands in the yard with his cap in his hands and asks what you saw. You tell him the truth, the only thing your grandmother ever taught you to hand over without polishing it. Above the pithead the afternoon sun is still bright on the wheat, and the mirror, wrapped again in its rag, stays warm in your pocket.