The rain hit the tin roof like a handful of gravel.

I sat on the cold floorboards.

My hands were shaking.

They were always shaking.

Not from fear.

From the cold.

From the hunger.

From the work.

My fingers were raw.

Red.

Cracked.

I looked at them.

They were just hands.

Plain human hands.

But I saw something else.

Gold.

A faint, sickly gold.

It pulsed in the veins.

It glowed in the knuckles.

I rubbed them on my trousers.

The dirt didn't help.

The gold stayed.

I was a prisoner in my own skin.

The shackles were invisible.

But they were there.

Tight.

Cold.

"You're doing it again," said Mr. Holloway.

He stood in the doorway.

His coat was soaked.

Steam rose from his hair.

He looked tired.

We all looked tired.

The mill was closing down.

The coal was gone.

The water was high.

We were all going under.

One by one.

"Doing what?" I asked.

My voice was scratchy.

Like sand in a hinge.

"Looking at your hands," he said.

He stepped inside.

The floor creaked.

It was an old house.

Leaning to the left.

The walls sweated.

It smelled of wet wool and rust.

And fear.

"I'm always looking at my hands," I said.

"I have to know where they are."

He sighed.

It was a long sigh.

The kind that comes from the bottom of the lungs.

The kind that gives up.

He sat down next to me.

He didn't offer me a chair.

There were no chairs.

Just the floor.

And the cold.

"We need to leave," he said.

"Tonight."

"I can't pay," I said.

"I have nothing."

"You have the gold," he said.

I flinched.

I tried to hide my hands.

He saw them.

He always saw them.

"It's not gold," I said.

"It's just light."

"Refraction," I said.

"From the chemical baths."

"It will fade."

"It always fades."

He looked at me.

His eyes were hard.

Steel.

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"Yes," I said.

"It's the only thing that makes sense."

He reached out.

He took my hand.

His grip was strong.

Warm.

I let him hold it.

I couldn't pull away.

I never could.

He turned my palm over.

He looked at the center.

The thenar eminence.

The muscle that controls the thumb.

It was glowing.

Bright.

Blinding.

"It's real," he said.

"Jack. It's real."

"No," I said.

"I'm a liar."

"I'm a thief."

"I stole the formula."

"I stole the credit."

"I deserve this."

He shook his head.

Slowly.

"Listen to me."

His voice was low.

A rumble.

Like distant thunder.

"You didn't steal it."

"You found it."

"In the waste."

"In the slag."

"You saw the pattern."

"Others saw only dirt."

"You saw the shape."

"I'm a fool," I said.

"I'm a weak man."

"I broke the machine."

"I broke the town."

"I broke us."

He tightened his grip.

"Look at me."

I looked.

His face was close.

I could see the pores.

The lines around his mouth.

The gray in his beard.

He was old.

I was young.

But he was the anchor.

I was the driftwood.

"Jack," he said.

"There is a train."

"At midnight."

"To the city."

"To the hospital."

"They can fix it."

"They can take the gold out."

I laughed.

A short, sharp bark.

"Fix it?"

"I am the gold."

"If they take it out," I said,

"I die."

"Maybe," he said.

"Maybe."

"But you can't live like this."

"You're fading."

"I can see it."

"Your eyes are getting dim."

"Your skin is getting thin."

I touched my face.

He was right.

I felt hollow.

Hollow and light.

Like a paper bag.

The gold was eating me.

From the inside out.

It was a slow fire.

A quiet burn.

"I don't want to go," I said.

"I don't want to be fixed."

"I want to stay here."

"With you."

"In the dark."

He pulled his hand away.

He stood up.

He walked to the window.

The rain had stopped.

The night was black.

But the streetlamps were on.

Orange circles in the wet.

They looked like coins.

Dropped in the mud.

"You are afraid," he said.

He didn't turn around.

"You are afraid of being just a man."

"Just a man who works."

"Just a man who fails."

"Just a man who dies."

"Yes," I said.

"The gold makes me special."

"The gold makes me matter."

"Without it," I said,

"I am nothing."

He turned.

His face was stern.

But his eyes were soft.

"Jack."

He said my name like a prayer.

"You are not nothing."

"You are my friend."

"You are my brother."

"You are the only one who sees the world clearly."

"Even if the world is broken."

"Even if the world is ugly."

"You see it."

"That is your value."

"Not the gold."

I looked at my hands.

The glow was brighter now.

It was almost painful.

A hum in the bones.

A vibration in the teeth.

I closed my eyes.

I tried to remember.

Before the mill.

Before the chemicals.

Before the accident.

I had been a boy.

I had run in the fields.

The grass was green.

The sky was blue.

My hands were empty.

And I was happy.

Was I?

I didn't remember.

I only remembered the weight.

The heaviness of being alive.

The burden of breath.

"Open your eyes," he said.

I opened them.

The room was darker.

The gold was dimmer.

Fading.

Just as I said it would.

It was only a trick.

A trick of the light.

A trick of the mind.

I was just a man.

A poor, broken man.

A sinner.

A prisoner.

"I'm going," I said.

My voice was steady.

For the first time in months.

It was steady.

He nodded.

He didn't smile.

He didn't cry.

He just nodded.

He picked up his coat.

He picked up his hat.

He put them on.

He looked at me.

One last time.

Then he opened the door.

The night rushed in.

Cold.

Wet.

Real.

"Come on," he said.

"Before the train leaves."

I stood up.

My legs were stiff.

I walked to the door.

I looked back.

At the floor.

At the spot where I had sat.

There was a mark.

A small, dark stain.

It looked like blood.

But it was just rust.

From the old iron stove.

I had imagined the gold.

I had imagined the prison.

I had imagined the curse.

I was just a man.

And I was tired.

I stepped out.

The rain had started again.

It hit my face.

Cold.

Sharp.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the water.

I felt the wind.

I felt the ground under my feet.

Solid.

Hard.

Real.

"Jack?"

He called out.

"Are you coming?"

"Yes," I said.

"I'm coming."

I followed him into the dark.

The gold was gone.

The pain was gone.

The fear was gone.

All that was left was the road.

And the steps.

One after another.

Into the night.

Into the unknown.

Into the life that waited.

Not a life of gold.

Not a life of glory.

Just a life.

Human.

Mortal.

Free.