the mail carts of purgatory
I wander the tunnels with a flashlight, searching for the stolen mail cart. A beautiful woman steps out of the shadows and returns a screwdriver she used to fix her prosthetic leg. She disappears. The screwdriver is warm. I press the handle to my cheek and close my eyes. I listen to the wind blowing through the tunnels, certain that I hear the squeaky wheel of the stolen mail cart.