A charcoal sketch of a mineshaft hung on the office wall. Held by a pushpin and slashed down the right bottom corner from a fingerprint smudge, it was the only art in the house. In another room hung a mirror. And all down the hallway a dozen or so photographs led the way to this office. Michael did his accounting and newspaper reading there. His son had drawn the mineshaft four years ago and called it, "Nightmare," and he gave it to Michael the following Christmas. He hadn't signed it, and the smudge occurred when he first handed the sheet to his father.
"What a dream," Michael had said, and then he walked down the hall to prick it against the Sheetrock.
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