My Tunnel

I have my own tunnel. None of my friends do. I'm ten. We moved to West Virginia last year right near the woods. That's where I found my tunnel. There aren't many kids around my age, so I go wandering a lot.
I won't tell you where my tunnel is. That's my secret. I've never gone all the way through. I probably will someday. Maybe it goes straight down into the earth.
It really is dark inside, but I'm not afraid. It's not like I'm five years old.
I shouldn't tell you this, but one day while I was in my tunnel exploring, I heard a noise. "Who's in my tunnel?" I yelled. Maybe I yelled too loud. I asked again. This time I saw in the shadows a stooped old man coming toward me. I picked up a rock. I wish it were a bigger rock. I knew I could out run him.
Then he said, "Please don't hurt me." Well, I wouldn't hurt anyone, mainly because I'm 72 pounds. "I have nowhere else to go and I'm hungry," the man said.
I asked who he was and how he got here. He said it was a long story and he'd be happy to tell me if I brought him food. Well, I was curious and ran home to get some sandwiches. He wanted beer, but I got cranberry juice instead. Beer is bad for you.
I couldn't wait to hear his story. He first told me his name. Sounded funny. His name is Jimmy Hoffa. And the story, well, after he was done I was pretty sure he made the whole thing up. Pretty good story though.