“Past the hand of dog, watch out for dinosaurs,” says a voice in the dark.
I recognize Jonathan Sims’s clipped, British military accent but have no idea what he’s talking about. My headlamp finds him, gray muttonchops curling out from beneath his battered helmet, sitting alone in the blackness along the wall of the cave.
“Carry on mate,” growls Sims. “Just resting a buggered ankle.”