Our equipment was breaking down. Little things, the diodes in our lamps, boots disintegrating from the caustic brine, feet left frigid and raw. Our tents were sad and wet, pitched in the middling girth of The Tunnel. We were stuck with that relentless indifferent process: entropy. Everything we had, even our stainless steel tools, were now blooming with Rust. Whispering to us about Rust.