The shoveling went on for what felt like forever, a steady, rhythmic motion that began, after a while, to feel like a pulse. Beads of sweat formed on his brow in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. Thick blisters began to form on his palms where they rubbed against the wooden shaft of the shovel.
He heaved himself out of the hole. Walked back to his green Dodge. He reached through the open passenger’s side window and retrieved a gallon-jug of water and a small, cube shaped box.
He set the box carefully on the ground.
He opened the jug of water and poured half of it over his sweating, aching body. Set down the jug. Picked up the box.
The box, which was too small to be used to hold anything practicle, vibrated slightly in the palm of his hand. It seemed to be translucent, and yet one could not quite clearly see through it.
The man dropped the box in the hole like it held some contagious disease and proceeded to bury it.
And only the cactus and birds bore witness.
Or so he thought.