Moles spend most of their lives waiting for the other shoe to drop. Most have effectively forgotten what they are. Or it has become so muddied with time, that it takes some concentration to look back far enough into a moment meant to be enshrouded. Like looking back for the varsity wrestler as rolls of fat collect around your midsection. Was this ever me? Am I still in there? It is safer for the Mole to forget. It is safer for him to have never known or to no longer have the memory present. In the end, it doesn't matter. In the end, who would believe him? In the end, a mole has only one handler and no paper trail. In the end, there have been a multitude of moles who have never heard their olly olly oxen free, abandoned into the wilderness, never to hear the reassuring thump from upstairs.