A Breath from Below

I pushed past the heavy barn door into the tall weeds flanking the foundation. Bolted atop a rotted timber well cover stood a tall cast-iron hand pump, its long lever pointing stiffly toward the morning sky. Locking my joints in measured stillness, I reached up and curled both clawed hands around the cold, pitted handle. I pulled downward with deliberate weight. The rusted pivot groaned with a sharp screech, and deep within the dark shaft, a dry suction thrummed—*huff-chug*—blowing a sudden puff of red rust dust cleanly out of the spout and across the trough. A low, raspy chuckle stirred deep in my hollow ribs as the cold air rose from the dark.