Plum coughed. Her back hurt, her ribs ached, and she couldn’t see very well. There was a bright film covering everything—like the aftershock of a camera flash in the dark.
The acrid tang of smoke filled her nostrils.
“Help,” she rasped. “Help.”
Had she said anything? She couldn’t hear, not even the muted warble of her voice reverberating in her own head. The ringing in her ears drowned out all other noise.
Plum sat up. Her bones ached, her back felt scraped raw.
She twisted her hand and touched behind her. Her hand didn’t feel any wetness, finding instead a dirt-crusted T-shirt.
Okay, so she wasn’t bleeding.
“What happened?” she asked aloud. Or at least, she thought she asked it out loud.
“Marlowe! Sofia!”
Her hands flailed out. She blinked furiously. Her hand found an ankle next to her.
Cool hands reached down and gripped her own.
It was Marlowe. Plum would know her touch, the soft cool of her hands, the wafting of her scent, even under the smoke, better than anything.
Plum squeezed the hands tight, blinking tears of relief out of her eyes. The tears were helping her vision. At least, it seemed that shapes were resolving more clearly.
Plum extricated one hand from Marlowe’s tight grip and reached out to her other side.
A hand touched her right shoulder.
Plum yelped.
This time, she heard it, as well as the responding yelp and then the rapid cadence of Sofia’s speech.
Both her friends were okay.
Plum sobbed.
Sofia patted her shoulder.
Sounds washed in and out, but that didn’t matter.
Both her friends were safe. But what about the others?