We hadn't been in the mine for an hour when the canary we'd brought down with us started acting strangely.

Normally, when a canary encountered carbon monoxide, it would start fluttering somewhat drunkenly before staggering and collapsing.

But this was different.

Sitting in its cage, the small yellow bird expanded its wings slowly and held them out to its

sides while still on its perch.

I and many of the others were down near the farthest reaches of the mine, where the explosives

had been set off the day before.

Since that explosion hadn't uncovered much more of the coal seam, they had been ordered

to try again in a different direction. We were clearing out debris from the first explosion

while a team was around the bend, drilling the shot holes for the explosives. A guy named McKay, the powderman with a satchel of dynamite at one hip,

tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the cage.

Several of the others had stopped working and were watching the bird as well.

Shouldn't we leave? I asked, staring at the bird, which dipped its body down, wings

still outstretched.

Probably, but will they let us walk out of the mine, but will they shoot us?

McKay asked.

It was a good point.

All the armed men who'd escorted us down to the mine were hanging around outside, making

sure no one snuck off. I remembered

the broken cages I'd seen the day before, how they had holes in them like the canaries they

held had busted out.

What happens next? I asked.

...