Death in the Panama Canal

I live in constant fear. There are so many ways to die while working here, laboring under the sweltering sun and humidity, on this great structure. Disease, railroad accidents, explosions, dehydration, the possibilities are endless, and each day that I work I never know which one it will be. I hope, if death is to come, it will come quick, avoiding any pain or torture, but only if I am lucky. I now have to carry 50 pounds of dynamite on my head and shoulders, thrashing through the jungle, in order to blow up the land separating two oceans. With every step I take, my heart is pounding out of my chest with the anxiety that each step could be my last. As we near the railroad, we stop for an approaching train. I look up at the fast moving train, but then everything feels in slow motion. Cars of the train filled with the dead bodies of men, workers like me. But some hardly seem to be men at all, their bodies disfigured and in pieces, beyond recognition. There is a constant reminder of misery and death while I work. The train passes, and when the dread sets in I see my mother across the railroad tracks smiling at me. I ever so carefully put the box of dynamite down and run towards her, but as soon as I reach to where she was standing, she is gone. Everyone is staring, and I soon began to realize she was never there at all. I don't think I am lucky enough to get a sudden death after all.