Hatch
You're good at making yourself fit. In conversations, in too-crowded rooms, in vents capped by fans with whipping blades. Your greatest achievement is a red ribbon (gathering dust on the back of some closet shelf in some house that you haven't lived in for over a decade) that reads Hide and Seek Champion, Franklin Elementary, 1993. That's why they chose you for this job—not for your prepubescent victory, but for your ability to squeeze, to shimmy, to shift.
You may have found the job posting, shipped your resume, wrote a sniveling letter expanding on your talents, and fidgeted in an ill-tailored pantsuit while they asked if you were willing to relocate if the position required it, but they chose you. Not they, the person who interviewed you, but they, the faceless entity funding this expedition, the fat cat behind the desk throwing cash at cracks and tipping up their nose when your colleagues go missing, the benefactor only referred to as—
"Boss wants it mapped by the end of the week."
You flick your eyes towards your supervisor, a burly woman you call Ecto (though you're almost certain that's not her real name) and then back to the crevice. A meter tall and half as wide, spat on the cave wall by the filthy mouth of God (you don't believe in God except for when you pray) (and praying got you out of worse situations than a conversation with Ecto so maybe you do believe in God) (mostly your feet hurt and you're hungry and you need a shower but you're stuck in a cave with a woman twice your size and a hole a quarter that) (you're not stuck, not really, you can leave any time you want, you know that right, it's important that you know that) or, more likely, erosion.
"Sure thing." You trace your finger over the tiny cracks that stretch from the yawning center, imagining that they tremble under your touch. They don't, because dirt doesn't have sentience, it doesn't, even if it presses against your body, even if it's like a hug, sometimes. You wonder if Ecto would hug you if you asked and decide that she would, which is somehow worse than the opposite. "What's in there?"
Ecto doesn't laugh. Not now, and as a general rule. "That's your job, isn't it?"
It might be a genuine question. You don't know what Ecto's job is either, only that she started at the same time as you did and ends up at the same sites and never has dirt on her clothes and you don't think she sleeps either, come to think of it. You've never heard her cry. As far as you know, her assignment is to point at holes and tell you to crawl inside which is an easier gig than you've got, so good for her really.
And you do. Crawl inside. It takes some effort but not more than you're used to, a shoulder popped out, a body turned sideways. It's dry earth at least, dustier than you'd like but not so much that you can't breathe. You do that, too. Breathe. Dirt clings to the shirt that clings to your chest when it expands, pressed against one wall, your back against the other.
"It's a dead end," you shout to Ecto, or would if you think she'd hear or give a fuck. You slide further in, laying your cheek against the wall and imagining it's a palm or a pair of lips, Ecto or Boss or God, it doesn't matter. Your next inhale is chalky and sour, and that doesn't matter either.
You're not doing this for the money. At least, as much as anyone doesn't work for money. Not for pride either, or a sense of purpose. You're doing this because you're good at it, because you can, because you're the last of your cohort except for Ecto but Ecto doesn't count seeing as she's currently standing full-height out in the open. You don't hate her for it, really, as much as anyone doesn't hate their superior (you don't hate Boss either, if you're being honest with yourself) (you usually are when you're trapped between earth and earth) because Ecto's doing this job for the same reason you are. So's Boss, you assume, as much as you can assume anything about Boss.
Your foot catches on a rock as you try to move further in, or at least you think it's a rock until it corrects you with a tink. You exhale, making yourself small enough to slide until you're horizontal, one hand outstretched, holding the not-rock, the other pinned against your stomach. It's metal, definitely, and so is the square it juts up from. "Found something," you shout to Ecto, or would if you could get air in your lungs that wasn't lined with— right. Dirt. But you can't stand, or you could but if you went to Ecto now she'd just send you back and tell you to get the fuck in there then, so you decide to cut out that middle bit and pull.
Nothing happens. You're not sure what you expected, divine intervention or the walls to start shaking or a boulder to roll towards you as some high energy royalty-free music starts blasting (don't be stupid, a boulder can't fit in here, you can barely fit in here) but you're disappointed nonetheless. You sigh, and it gives you just enough space to find your feet, to start moving back to Ecto and open air. Best to come back tomorrow, you think, with fresh eyes and maybe a flashlight if you can manage it, if Ecto can talk Boss into splurging on batteries. If Ecto talks to Boss at all.
You're a forearm's distance away from the not-rock when it clanks, calling you back. Air whistles from below, almost like a song (not the one you were promised with the boulder but softer, like a lullaby) (or what you think a lullaby would sound like) (would Ecto sing to you if you asked?) and you press your ear against the earth to listen. There's not enough room to turn your head and look, but it's open now, it must be, and something's awake down there, or something wants you (you decide she would, which is somehow worse) to go down there.
You take a step which is more like a slide which is more like a tumble, back where you came from, not to Ecto but towards the promise of the not-rock and the not-dirt, the whisper of a palm or a pair of lips. You might be walking or falling or flying or praying but it doesn't matter, not in the dark, not when your gasp is echoed in clear air and a song. Ecto might be calling your name (she's not, she doesn't know your name) or maybe you're screaming hers (she'll report the incident to Boss, and Boss will say nothing, if Boss even exists) or maybe you're making no sound at all.