When the teetering stops I go back to digging.
I do it for my mom. For Coach and his pep talks. For Leo by the pool gate. For my teammates. For the hope of mending things with Mila. For Charlie.
Then suddenly a slash through the palm of my hand. Deep and instant. I pull it back toward me, crying out as the blood oozes, seeping until it coats the wristband of my sweatshirt. I push against the cut with my elbow from my other arm. I don’t have time for injuries.
I pull the wrists of my sweatshirt over my hands, punch my fists back through the hole, and continue to dig. Nobody else is going to do this for me. If I don’t get myself out of here, I’ll end up like Charlie.
I move my legs again, try to bend my knees, but there’s not enough room. I need to get my head through that opening. My knees scrape against the rubble above me, but I’m able to scoot up a few inches. I want to see if I can get my head free, but it’s still too dark. I can’t see. I don’t know what’s waiting to drop on me. I don’t know what could happen if I try to push myself out now.
It kills me to know I have to wait. Because all the work I’ve done could be ruined by another aftershock. But I need more light. I need to be able to see so I don’t hurt myself.
I pull my head down. Curl into myself on the ground. Whimpering. Hoping against hope that another aftershock doesn’t send everything crashing down on top of me again. Ruining the work I’ve done. Burying me. I tell myself I’ll rest for a moment. I’ll fill my head with memories until the half-hearted sunlight of dawn arrives.