INO ZARB
Ino Zarb had a rusted hatchet tucked under his belt and a new pack of American cigarettes in his coat pocket. Lucky Strike was his favorite brand of smokes. He puffed on one now as he and the other men marched bravely into the cave, torches raised. He’d been so worried about the children he’d almost gone into the cave to search for them alone, but now—with eight sturdy men following him—he was glad he waited. Out of habit, most of the men reached for the guide rope they knew wasn’t there anymore; a few of them did it more than once. They joked about it when they stumbled or fell, but quickly and nervously adjusted their balance at the edge of the crevasse.
“It feels strange without the rope,” muttered a man in the rear that Zarb didn’t know. The man had brought two long knives a
