The year is 1998. The town of Hollowbrook hasn't changed much since the disaster — time in these parts crawls like molasses in February.

There is a sign at the edge of town, rusted at the corners, peeling white paint. It reads:

HOLLOWBROOK MINE — EST. 1872. CLOSED PERMANENTLY — 1965.

Below that, in fresher, angrier spray paint: DON'T GO DOWN.

The road bends away from the sign, winding on toward the outskirts where the old shaft entrance still gapes open. It has been sealed twice, and twice someone has pried the boards loose. Tonight, there is a faint light flickering deep inside.

A truck rumbles down the lane, bass thumping, laughter spilling out the open windows.

The truck growls forward, tail lights shrinking into the darkness, toward the hulking black mouth of the old mine.