At dawn on the third day Mrs. Protestant pastor saw a man come out of the rift. Since it could not be the Chief (fallen into the abyss the night before, and a cadaver by now, not to mince one’s words), she thought it was a soldier on patrol, or an armed spelunker.
The man walked while rubbing his eyes (one could see from a mile away that his eyes were red), spitting out cement dust, which fell and shattered like grains of unripe hail.
Mrs. Protestant pastor started moving towards him, but stopped when she realized that the man was walking towards her. Not in a direct fashion, naturally: like a shrimp in wine and showing only his hand deep in his eye sockets, not happy, but with a certain pleasure, however liberating.
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