I punch two fists through the hole I’ve created, but it’s still not big enough to get my body through. I open and close my hands. Grasp at empty air. I’m still afraid I might hit glass shards or sharp metal protrusions that are ready and waiting to slice me wide open. Leave me bleeding. Slowly dying.
I shift in my space. Feel the ache in my legs that have been still for too long. I imagine myself unfurling. I reach farther. Catch the lick of a cold breeze on my fingers. I cup my hand against it. The air feels endless. The space infinite. Cleaner. Crisper. Even though it’s still pitch-dark in the middle of the night, I want to be in it. I wave my arm around until my hand catches on the table that was once on top of me. Can I move it? I grip the edge with both hands and shove with all my strength, grunting through gritted teeth. My head throbs and my face heats with the effort. My muscles scream like when I push myself doing reps in the weight room. Every inch pulsating.
I’m so tired. I have to breathe for a second.
Pant, pant, pant.
I push again because I have no other choice. I push as the veins in my temples pop and throb in protest.
“Help,” I whimper to nobody but the empty air and Charlie’s last breath.
I remember water polo hell week and doing eggbeater in the middle of the deep end, hoisting my hands above my head. My arms were like noodles, ready to give out, but still I moved. I wouldn’t sink. I wouldn’t stop. I would never ever be the first one out of the pool.
I won’t give up now. I’m in the pool, my arms aching as if I’m balancing gallon jugs of water above my head. I won’t stop pushing. I can’t stop until I’m out of here. Sweat drips into my eyes. My heart pounds like it might burst from my chest.
Still I push.
Another shove and something shifts.
Then a crash.
I tuck my chin to my chest, clench my fists, close my eyes, and wait for it.