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The hum growled through the fog, chains rattling.

Drew leaned back against the oak, scratching his newly shaved scalp. It figures he’d chop off his mop-top the day it got cold.

The group digging up the turf kept up their chant, making him grin. Working men and food, a beautiful relationship if ever there was one. Sacred.

The night made the black men seem almost invisible, their color hiding what the fog couldn’t. He stuck out like a sore thumb, even though he was a nice shade of walnut himself.

But a shout rang out and the chains stopped rattling. Nothing like digging up a little buried treasure at four in the morning to make a man feel alive.

“Ta-dah,” he said as he brushed dirt off his knees. He wondered how he was going to transport everything and then shrugged. Nothing a little smooth jazz couldn’t fix.

He figured it was very appropriate, seeing as they were leaving a graveyard. Maybe that was just his predilection for New Orleans speaking. The man inside the cryo-coffin looked peaceful.

Drew pondered that a moment. The dead and the sleeping were the only two things he’d ever seen look peaceful. He scuffed his toe through the salt circle surrounding the grave and winked at the nearest digger.

He typed in the revitalization sequence.

“So Mr. Montclair, what was so important you needed to be alive to see it?”

He pushed the shiny red button.