The coal dust got into everything. It settled in the creases of my eyelids and the corners of my mouth. It turned the white plaster of the basement ceiling into a bruise. We lived below the street. We lived below the rain. We lived in the dark, where the air tasted of iron and old sweat.

My father, Thomas, was a man who spoke little but listened loud. He had a way of tilting his head, like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle no one else could catch. He worked the night shift at the ironworks. The shift that burned the lungs. The shift that paid enough to keep the gas on and the potatoes in the larder.

I was twelve. I was small for my age. I wore my brother’s old coat, which hung off me like a shroud. My brother, Arthur, was gone. He had gone up to the city with the soldiers. He had gone to be brave. He had not come back. Not yet. Or ever. The letters stopped coming three weeks ago. The silence since then was heavier than the coal dust.

My mother, Eleanor, sat by the window that didn’t look out on anything. It looked at the wall of the neighboring building. She stared at the brick. She counted the cracks. One, two, three. One, two, three. She did this all day. She did this all night.

“Eat,” she said. Her voice was thin. Like paper tearing.

I ate. The soup was thin. It had no meat. It had no bone. It was just water and regret.

Thomas came home. His boots were caked in black mud. His eyes were red. Not from crying. From the heat. From the glare of the furnaces.

He sat at the table. He did not speak. He looked at me. He looked at the empty chair where Arthur used to sit.

“We need money,” he said.

His voice was flat. Dead.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the world is breaking,” he said. “And the rich men who broke it want to be paid for the trouble.”

I didn’t understand. I was a boy. I thought the world was a place where you went to school, you worked, and you died. I didn’t know it could be a place where you were eaten.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

Thomas looked at me. Really looked. For the first time in years. I saw something in his eyes. Fear. Not of the war. Of us. Of failing us.

“Walk,” he said.

“Walk?”

“Walk the line. The high line. Above the yards. Where the men sleep in the day. They have gold, Thomas. They have the pay that keeps the empire warm. You take what is owed. You take it for Arthur.”

My heart hammered. It was a drum. A small, frantic drum in my chest.

“It’s stealing,” I said.

“It’s justice,” he said.

I laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. “Justice doesn’t wear a mask, Dad. Justice wears a uniform. And the uniform is on the other side of the fence.”

Thomas stood up. He was taller than me. He was always taller. But now he looked small. He looked like a boy who had been told to do something impossible.

“The system is a machine, lad,” he said. “And the machine is eating us. We are the fuel. They are the engine. You cannot argue with an engine. You can only take its oil.”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to run. But I looked at my mother. She was still counting the cracks. She didn’t hear us. She was gone. She was somewhere else, with Arthur.

I looked at Thomas. He was trembling. His hands shook. He was afraid. He was going to send me to die. Or to prison. Or to hell.

“Where do I start?” I asked.

He pointed to the floor. To the hatch. The one that led to the tunnels beneath the factory. The tunnels that ran under the city like veins.

“Go down. Come up on the other side. At the clock tower. There is a man there. A clerk. He is fat. He is rich. He has a watch that is worth more than my life. Take it. And take the key to the office.”

I looked at the hatch. The iron was cold. I could feel the cold through my boots.

“What if I get caught?” I asked.

“Then you will learn what it means to be a man,” he said. “And what it means to be free.”

I went down.

The dark was thick. It swallowed me. I climbed. My hands bled. The metal was sharp. It cut my palms. I didn’t feel it. I only felt the fear. The fear was a bird. It flew in my stomach. It pecked at my ribs.

I climbed for an hour. Or two. Time didn’t matter. The air grew warmer. It smelled of oil. Of heat. Of life.

I came up through a grate in the roof of the clock tower.

The sun was setting. It was red. Like blood. The city stretched out below me. It was a grid of lines. Black and white. Grey.

I saw the man.

He was sitting on a bench. He was eating an apple. He was smiling. He looked happy. He looked innocent.

I walked toward him. My legs were stiff. My hands were shaking.

I pulled out the knife. It was a pocket knife. My father’s. It was dull. It was old.

I stood in front of him.

He looked up. He saw me. He didn’t scream. He didn’t run.

He looked at the knife. He looked at my face. He saw the blood on my hands. He saw the coal dust in my hair. He saw the fear.

“Who are you?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Smooth. Like water over stones.

“Thomas’s son,” I said.

He tilted his head. He smiled. It was a kind smile. A pitying smile.

“Thomas,” he said. “He is a good man. A hard worker. But he is confused. The times are hard, boy. Everyone is struggling. But this is not the way.”

I felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It burned in my throat.

“Give me the watch,” I said.

The man took out his handkerchief. He wiped the juice from his chin. He reached for his pocket.

I raised the knife. I aimed for his heart.

He didn’t flinch. He looked at me. Really looked.

He saw the boy. Not the thief. Not the criminal. The boy. The scared, bleeding, hungry boy.

He stopped moving.

He looked at the knife. He looked at my eyes.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said.

“I have to,” I said.

“You don’t,” he said. “You are not a monster. You are a child. And children are not monsters.”

I lowered the knife. Just an inch.

He stood up. He was tall. He was clean. He smelled of soap. Of money.

He reached into his pocket. He took out the watch. It was gold. It was beautiful. It was ugly. It was everything I wanted.

He held it out to me.

I took it.

It was heavy. It was warm. It was alive.

He looked at me. His eyes were sad.

“Go home,” he said.

I turned to run.

But I stopped.

I looked at him. He was sitting back down. He was eating his apple. He was smiling.

He had not called the police. He had not shouted. He had given me the watch.

Why?

Because he was kind?

No.

Because he was weak?

No.

Because he was afraid?

Maybe.

But mostly, I thought, because he knew. He knew that the system was broken. He knew that I was right. He knew that justice was a lie. And by giving me the watch, he was joining the lie. He was feeding the beast.

I ran.

I ran down the tower. I ran through the tunnels. I ran through the dark.

I came up through the hatch.

Thomas was waiting.

He was standing in the basement. He was holding a candle. The light was small. It flickered.

He saw the watch.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t cheer.

He looked at the watch. He looked at me.

He saw the blood on my hands.

He saw the emptiness in my eyes.

He knew.

He knew that I had not won. He knew that I had lost.

He knew that the watch was not justice. It was a symbol. A symbol of our defeat.

He reached out his hand.

I put the watch in his palm.

He closed his fingers around it.

He didn’t speak.

He turned away.

He walked to the table. He sat down.

My mother was still counting the cracks.

One, two, three.

I looked at the wall.

The wall was white.

But it wasn’t white.

It was grey.

It was the color of ash.

It was the color of the coal dust.

It was the color of us.

I sat down.

I picked up the spoon.

I ate.

The soup was cold.

It tasted of nothing.

I looked at my father.

He was crying.

Silently.

Without sound.

Like a machine that had run out of oil.

Like a man who had run out of hope.

I understood then.

The war was not outside.

The war was inside.

And we were losing.

We were losing every day.

We were losing every night.

We were losing our souls.

One by one.

Like coal.

Like dust.

Like silence.

I looked at the watch.

It was gone.

It was in the drawer.

It was hidden.

It was ours.

And it was worthless.

Because it couldn’t buy Arthur back.

It couldn’t buy time.

It couldn’t buy justice.

It could only buy a meal.

And a meal was not enough.

I looked at my mother.

She stopped counting.

She looked at me.

Her eyes were clear.

She saw me.

She saw the boy.

She saw the man.

She saw the ghost.

She reached out her hand.

I took it.

It was cold.

It was dry.

It was real.

We sat there.

In the dark.

In the dust.

In the silence.

Waiting.

For the end.

Which was already here.

Which was always here.

Which was us.