My hands were raw and bleeding; dirt had worked its way into the weeping blisters. I still wasn't done here, so I wrapped my hands in strips of fabric from my shirt and adjusted my grip on the shovel.

It was a stupid wish. I never should have made it.

I repeated the thought like a mantra, the words forming a beat in time with the thump of the shovel. I couldn't change the past though, no matter how hard I wished. I guess it was a one-wish scenario. No take-backs. No extra wishes.

It was a stupid wish. I never should have opened my mouth.

I kept digging. I was out of breath. Mud trickled down my face and arms; a mixture of sweat and dirt. I was standing in the hole now, hefting shovel-loads of dirt up and over the edge. My eyes were gritty from clouds of soil puffing into the air.

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