By Peter B. and Art Intelli
Chapter Seven: The Haul Road
The morning came with a new kind of silence.
Peter had grown used to the sound of clinking metal—his own breathing tangled with the rhythm of ankle irons. He’d even adjusted to the permanent weight of the ball and chain, learning to shift it with a timed swing, like an extension of his body.
But today, the twins stood at the edge of the bunkhouse, arms folded, waiting beside a long, flatbed trailer loaded with something new: railroad ties—dense, creosote-soaked, and heavy enough to buckle a man if he wasn’t careful.
Wade barked the order. “You’re hauling every one of those to the fence line. Half-mile down the haul road.”
Colt added, “Stack ‘em neat. No draggin’. We hear draggin’, you’re back in the box.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded once.
No backtalk.
They handed him thick gloves, more as a dare than a kindness.
And the labor began.
