Andy unlocks the gate just after six-fifteen, the yard silent in the hazy dawn light. A grey Ford sits where it always does in the car park, its driver’s door closed, ice criss-crossing the windscreen.
He pushes through the site office door and shudders. He didn’t expect it to be colder inside than outside. He’s not had to worry about it before.
He flicks on the tiny heater which slowly begin to spread some warmth and the familiar smell of burning dust through the portacabin.
Seven mugs sit unwashed in the sink from three days ago. From before the weekend. From before.
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