Chapter 8Polar nights. Never ending blue darkness.
Joe could never explain these days to his mother, or anyone who’d never experienced them. Where ever he went from here, if he ever did leave this place, Joe would never forget these days of nights. To be under a sun that refuses to warm you.
His fingers were numb from the cold, but Joe swung the ax again and again, finally splicing the log in two. At a distance, he heard a tree crash, but couldn’t be bothered to look up to see where it would land. This morning, their work group had been welcomed by a crowd of angry Natives who were here to protest Murphy’s plant. The men were holding up large signs, and the words on them seemed to be written in blood.
They hate us, Joe thought. This place was cursed―the forest, soil, the inmates―they we
