Dear Supervisor,
I had hoped to write this note respectfully to thank you for the opportunity to work here, but I can't keep up the pretense anymore. The truth is, this job is breaking me. The labor is took much: day after day of swinging tools until my body gives out, only to collapse into miserable tents that barely shield us. It's inhuman.
And now, the fog. That damned fog creeps in from the rear shafts. None of us know what it is, but we all feel it. The headaches, the shaking hands, the strange dreams — don't tell me it's nothing because we all know it's not. Some of the men already look like shadows of themselves.
