LABOR DAY, 3:17 A.M.

“Sawyer, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“I can’t feel my feet. Or my hands. Or my elbows. Or my face. Or—”

“Sadie-Grace, just give me a second.”

“Okay… Was that a second?”

“If I’m going to get us out of here, I need to think.”

“I’m sorry! I want to stop talking! But I dance when I’m nervous, and right now, I can’t dance, because I can’t feel my feet. Or my hands. Or my elbows. Or—”

“Everything is going to be fine.”

“When I’m nervous and I can’t dance, I babble. And, Sawyer? Being buried alive makes me very nervous.”