Part 1 Holston
1
The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing¹ as only
happy children do. While they thundered about frantically² above, Holston took his time, each step
methodical and ponderous³, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots
ringing out on metal treads.
The treads, like his father’s boots, showed signs of wear. Paint clung to them in feeble chips,
mostly in the corners and undersides, where they were safe. Traffic elsewhere on the staircase sent
dust shivering off in small clouds. Holston could feel the vibrations⁴ in the railing, which was worn
down to the gleaming metal. That always amazed him: how centuries of bare palms and shuffling⁵ feet
could wear down solid steel. One molecule⁶ at a time, he supposed. Each life might wear away a
single layer, even as the silo wore away that life.
Each step was slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edge rounded down like a pouting⁷
lip. In the center, there was almost no trace of the small diamonds that once gave the treads their grip.
Their absence could only be inferred from the pattern to either side, the small pyramidal bumps rising
from the flat steel with their crisp edges and flecks⁸ of paint.
Holston lifted an old boot to an old step, pressed down, and did it again. He lost himself in what
the untold⁹ years had done, the ablation of molecules¹⁰ and lives, layers and layers ground to fine dust.

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