DAY SEVEN
25
Wynn woke early, very early. He looked at his watch—0253. He’d slept fitfully, never more than 30 minutes consecutively, feeling suspended between dreams and full consciousness. Details of the pending brick factory operation cycled over and over in his head, hard pieces of information tumbling in his semi-consciousness, like ice from an ice maker. Awake now, guilt came knocking, as if he was forgetting something but didn’t know what. He’d rarely had trouble sleeping, even here. His body always needed sleep, took it ravenously, but never too much. He got out of bed. Still in his skivvies, he cracked his door and looked outside. Soon they would once again face the hot beating sun, each man paying tribute with his sweat.
Every sound around him was manmade. The fans of hundreds
