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She pushed again and then slammed her hip against the wooden wainscoting. Nothing moved. The door was jammed shut. Damn! She was angry at being inconvenienced, not to mention that she’d be the color of a lobster if she didn’t get out soon. The glass window was fogged from the burst of steam she had created by dropping water onto the hot stones. She wiped it clean and looked out. The glass was hot enough to burn her forehead.

She rapped on the window with her knuckles and heard a dead sound. If it was glass, it was a special heat-resistant glass. It had none of the resonance she would expect from knocking on a window. Damn! They would probably have to get the hotel engineer to free her. She didn’t like the idea of being rescued wearing nothing but a towel.

She checked the thermometer. It read 185 degrees. How hot do they want to make this place? She went to the heating unit to turn down the temperature, but she couldn’t find a dial. There were white-hot stones being scorched by a gas flame. The flame seemed to be dangerously high.

She ladled more water from the bucket and saw that there wasn’t more than half an inch of water left. She poured it all out onto the rocks, creating a new cloud of drenching steam. The flame flickered but reignited instantly. The temperature gauge dipped down to 180 degrees. But within seconds it was climbing again.

It was at that moment Jane realized she was in terrible danger. She had no way of cutting back on the temperature, which would continue to rise. She couldn’t force the door open. And her pounding and shouting were deadened by the insulation in the walls. If someone didn’t stumble across her plight, she would be cooked like a rib roast.

She wiped the window again and looked out. She could see the opposite wall, all white tile, like the showers. Someone had to come past. Just wait a second. When another woman walked by, pound on the glass and throw your hip against the door. She’d have to hear the noise, see Jane in the window, and realize that she was locked in. She waited, wiping her skin with the towel and then wrapping it around Jane as protection against the heat. She was beginning to feel dizzy and unsteady. My God, am I already being cooked?

She rapped on the glass again and then used her knee to pound against the door. She waited. No one came. What if there was no one? What if the spa had no more customers and was closed for lunch? By the time they came back and realized she was missing, the heat would have roasted her.

A shadow flashed past on the white tile wall. Two women, wrapped in bath sheets, suddenly came into view, walking side by side and chatting happily. Jane screamed at the top of her lungs. They kept walking. She pounded on the glass and crashed her knee against the door. The women never broke stride. Apparently, they never heard a thing. “Jesus,” she prayed, “I’m going to die in here.”

All she had as tools were the long-handled ladle and the water bucket. She took the ladle, held it like a baseball bat, and struck the window. The glass held firm. The ladle broke, the deep cup splitting away from the long, thin handle. Jane took the bucket, swung it around behind her, and fired it into the window. The glass cracked, a single jagged line that ran from one corner to another. But it never threatened to shatter and fall out of its frame. She used the bucket again and again, but all she could do was add another crack that ran from the original break to another corner. It was some kind of safety glass that could crack or even shatter but would never fall out. And it was a double pane. There was another, just as stubborn, on the other side.

She was exhausted. Just lifting and swinging the bucket was more than she could handle in the intense, energy-draining heat. Jane slumped back onto the towel, putting her weight on the edge of the bench. The heat burned at her mouth and ears and seemed to suck the moisture out of her body. Reason told her to relax, stay perfectly still, and conserve whatever energy she had left. Her survival instinct had other ideas. If she yielded, it would take only a few seconds for the intense heat to burn away her consciousness and leave her to die. If she was going to survive, she had to break out now, with the little bit of energy that was left to her.

She lifted the water bucket by its handle and swung it with all her might. The glass she had cracked now burst into a star, but it held firm in the window. Jane swung at it again. It took still another blow to send shards flying. She tried to pull the remaining pieces out of the window opening, but the glass was too hot to touch. She retrieved her towel from the bench, wrapped it around her fist, and punched out the remaining glass. But there was another pane on the other side of the thick door, and when she swung the bucket, it crashed harmlessly against the inside window frame.

She wiped the second window and caught a glimpse of the tile wall leading into the showers. Now when she knocked, anyone passing by the door was bound to hear her. But how long would that be? The thermometer was passing 210 degrees. The air burned her lungs as she breathed. The empty bucket seemed to have gotten too heavy to lift.

She punched her towel-covered hand against the outside glass. It made a dull thud, but the glass remained intact. Then her arm began to bleed, slashed by the bits of glass still imbedded in the inside frame. She held the towel against her arm and looked around frantically. What else did she have to work with?

A shadow flashed by the steamy window. Jane reached in with a bloody arm and knocked her knuckles against the glass. But the shadow had already passed. Whoever had walked by was already too far away to hear her feeble knocking.

She looked at the fire, its flames licking the rocks that were giving off the intense heat. There was no way she could lower it. Then she thought of the rocks. If she could lift one of them, it would easily smash through the window. She folded the towel to double its thickness and then folded it again. But even with the towel, she couldn’t get her hand down into the furnace. Her skin seared instantly.

She felt dizzy. She needed to sit down on the bench. But she knew that if she did, she would never get up again. She would die, pounding feebly against her oven door.

The handle! She saw the handle that had broken off the ladle. Maybe she could knock one of the stones out of the fire. She picked it up and stuck its narrower end down between the rocks. She pried one of them up from the grate and was able to push it on top of the other rocks. She moved another and then another, slowly building a pile until the highest stone was even with the rim of the furnace. She knocked it off and it fell to the wooden floor, which began to smolder and blacken.

Jane reached for the stone with the folded towel and for an instant had a grip on it. But then the towel smoldered and her fingers began to burn. She had to pull her hand away. How long before she would be able to touch it? Too long! The rock could hold heat for an hour. She looked at the thermometer—220 degrees. All she had left were seconds. She took the handle, thrust it into the window opening, and began to poke at the outside glass. It rattled but held firm. Jane backed up, raised the handle like a spear, and hurled it against the glass. A crack appeared across the center of the pane.

She jammed the rod back into the opening and struck again and again. Other cracks appeared, and then the window starred. But it was too late! By now the wooden handle seemed as heavy as a railroad tie. Her blows were becoming more and more feeble. Jane knew she couldn’t stop. She had to keep striking! But the air was too hot to breathe. And her arms were too tired to lift. She felt herself slumping, beginning her death slide down the inside of the door.