He had come prepared, though, knowing that if he was lucky enough to find the old mine, he would likely not be able just to walk right into a shaft. He unzipped his backpack excitedly, pulling out the tools he would need. They had weighed down the pack, making the hike here much more tiring than he had expected it to be, but now he congratulated himself on his foresight.
He placed the tools side by side on the ground, lining them up neatly: A hammer with a heavy iron head. A wedge Matt used to split wood in the back yard. A long screwdriver with a thick metal shaft. He had thought long and hard about what to bring on this hike, and it appeared his planning had been perfect.
He picked up the wedge, inserting the thin, sharp end into the small gap between the concrete slab and the thick wooden beam, lining it up with where he figured the rusting iron bolt should be. Then he grabbed the hammer and prepared to smash the wedge. His plan was to slice through the bolt.
Tim knew he would probably destroy the wedge in the process, and the feeling of guilt that had been eating away at him since deceiving his mom this morning intensified. First he had lied and now he was about to destroy someone else’s property.
He shook his head, embarrassed at being such a baby. The wedge was just a hunk of forged iron. It would probably be months before it was even missed, and when it was, Tim could own up to losing it and pay Matt out of his paper route earnings for a new one. No big deal. Tim vowed not to lose his nerve over something so stupid.
He took a deep breath and prepared to swing the hammer. It felt unbalanced in his hand, the iron head much heavier than he had expected. He braced the wedge against the concrete and then reared back and swung the hammer hard. And missed the wedge. The hammer’s iron head whistled past his hand and smashed into the wooden beam with a squishy THUMP.
Oh, man. That was close. Tim tried to imagine hiking two hours back to his house from the middle of nowhere with a broken hand and grimaced. Be more careful, dummy.
He steadied himself and swung again — this time with a little less backswing, to hopefully provide a little more control — and connected solidly with the wedge. A metallic TINK sang out and the wedge vibrated and Tim wondered if he had done any damage to the bolt. He swung again and connected again, then swung a third time and was rewarded. The wedge sank out of sight, disappearing between the concrete slab and the wooden beam.
He knew he had snapped the bolt and smiled. He felt like Indiana Jones or something. His plan was working!
Tim picked up the screw driver and slid the end into the gap between the slab and the beam. What had started out as a sliver, just barely enough room to slide the thin end of the wedge into, was now at least an inch thick, forced apart by the base of the wedge.
The screw driver was massive, at least two feet long, with a thick steel head. It was no ordinary screw driver; it was more like a pry bar, so big Matt used it as a poker in the fire pit behind his house. Tim hoped it would be strong enough to do what he was about to ask of it.
He stood up and leaned against the handle with all his weight, pushing and shoving, trying to use the screw driver as a lever to force the slab away from the wooden beam and break another of the iron bolts. And it worked. Sort of.
The nearly one hundred year old slab of concrete broke apart. The top half shattered, breaking along one of the thicker cracks in its surface. Tim lost his balance and fell to the ground next to the slab as concrete pieces, some as big as his head and others looking like tiny grains of sand, showered the ground in front of the mine shaft.
Tim scrambled to his feet and surveyed the damage, wide-eyed. This wasn’t exactly what he had planned — less than half of the gigantic slab had been removed — but the opening looked big enough to wriggle through. It probably wouldn’t accommodate a full-grown adult, maybe not even a normal-sized kid, but for once in his life, Tim was thankful for the fact that he was small for his age.
He grabbed a flashlight out of his pack — another unwitting contribution from Matt — and swung a leg over the top of the broken and crumbling slab. The inside of the ancient mine was pitch-black and terrifying and Tim knew he would have to move fast or else he would lose his nerve. He eased into a sitting position on the slab and ducked his head and prepared to slide into the tunnel.
And his cell phone rang.
He dropped the flashlight and fumbled around in the front pocket of his cargo shorts. School hadn’t gotten out yet, so it couldn’t be any of his friends calling. In fact, there was only one person it could be. He lifted his phone to his face. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Timmy, you sound much better! How are you feeling?”
He mentally kicked himself for forgetting he was supposed to be sick, then lowered his voice and tried to sound ill. “H-hi, Mom, yeah, I guess I’m a little better.”
“Is everything all right? You sound preoccupied.”
“Uh, no. Yeah, I mean. Everything’s okay, you just caught me in the middle of a nap, that’s all.” He mentally kicked himself for not anticipating that his mom would call; of course she would, he was supposed to be home sick, after all.
“Oh. Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep, then. I just wanted to check in on you and let you know I might be able to get out of work early and come home to take care of you.”
“NO!”
“What?”
“I mean, you don’t need to do that, Mom, I’ll probably just sleep the rest of the day, anyway. I’m pretty sleepy.” He tried to yawn and realized he had no idea how to do it convincingly when he wasn’t really tired.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong, Timothy?”
“I’m sure, yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll see you when I get home, then.”
“Bye, Mom.” Tim ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. He was suddenly miserable. He hated lying to his mom. The rest of the adventure was cool, challenging and fun, although also kind of stressful. But he had always been close to his mom and almost never lied to her.
He picked up the flashlight again, his enthusiasm suddenly dampened. If his mom came home early and discovered he had faked an illness just so he could play hooky, it would be months before he could earn her trust back, maybe longer. Heck, maybe he never would. What had seemed like a harmless lark when he planned it now felt less like something fun and more like a really bad idea.
He sat on the crumbling slab thinking, his right leg dangling into the black pit. Did he really want to do this?
His plan had been to take a few pics from inside the mine with his cell phone camera to prove to his friends back at school — the babies who liked to pretend they were tough but hadn’t had the guts to join him — that he had really done what they were all too chicken to do.
But what if Mom really got out of work early like she said she was going to? He would be in huge trouble, then, and for what? To prove he was more of a man than his friends?
If he left now and really moved, he might still be able to get home before Mom, even if she did leave work early. She hadn’t said she was getting out right now, so she probably meant she was going to take a couple of hours off at the end of her shift. Normally she got home around 5:30, so if he was right, today she might be back by 3:30. Tim thought he might be able to get home and back in bed by then.
Plus, he could still take a couple of pictures to prove he had accomplished what no one else was tough enough to do. He could get one of himself standing in front of the broken concrete seal over the mine shaft, and maybe a couple more inside the dilapidated office building. He didn’t really have to actually enter the mine shaft or anything.