THREE LITTLE FINGERS

Iain Kelly

The circular saw wound down to a standstill. He piled up the last of the cut logs.

Bill waved at him as he headed out the door, gesturing that he would see him for a drink at the bar. There were only four of them that went along for the end-of-the-week drink now, hardly the famed gatherings of the past.

He took the letter from his pocket again. Three weeks from today and he would be out of a job. They blamed a lack of demand for their product. Moving the company to a more flexible workforce. Adapting to the global economy.

There was nowhere else to find work. All the other local sawmills had closed down, unable to compete when the big national had taken over this one.

Three kids to support, an ex-wife who wouldn’t cut him any slack.

He’d checked the insurance policy. It even gave him a…

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