The Cracked Tin Cup

On the Antswarm’s lamp-floor a cracked tin cup sat on the rim of a barrel, full of cold tea that nobody had drunk since the last catch. Dov, the youngest wick-boy, filled it each shift and set it where the old hands would find it when they came off their stools too tired to lift their arms. Nobody ever said whose turn it was to drink it. The cup was the only thing on that floor that did not wait on the Lantern, and Dov liked to think someone should be looked after before the light was.