Morning finds harsh weather returned to us. Rain is falling, my feet are cold, and Chet is puking into a bucket. Breakfast is leftover biscuits and molasses. None of us want to face the day, but none of us wants to raise the subject of not working. The fact that we pulled nuggets from the ground on Saturday entices us toward thinking more wait on us.
Dieter is quiet, befitting a man with a hangover, yet he seems in better shape than Chet and me. I don’t get this, since he drank at least twice what we did, if not more. I guess some men handle liquor better than others. Soon he’s grabbing implements and encouraging us out the door.
We work half the day, find nothing, and call it quits when the rain gets too heavy. Back in the cabin, we build a good fire and attempt to dry out. Once again,
