Something crunches. Moves. Pants. Sniffs. Someone is here. Something is here.
It presses against my hand. My eyelids flutter. I make out the black damp nose of a dog. It pulls back. Barks. Barks again.
Footsteps pound. Slip on uneven ground.
Thump, thump, slide.
Shouts. Whistles. Echoes. People.
And then it comes.
Fingertips to my pulse. A voice. A man. A stranger. Help at last.
“Right here! I’ve got someone!”
The fingertips wrap around mine. A full hand squeezes. The voice asks me to squeeze back. My hand is so small compared to this other one.
One day I will meet someone with bigger hands than mine.
Rough calluses and strong fingers. “Squeeze,” the voice says again.
It’s effort. My fingers barely bend. I try to grip. Force the faintest movement. Then slip.
“Good, good,” the voice says. “We’re gonna get you out.”
In my mind, I nod. Say thank you.
“Over here! Bring a board!” he calls to the others.
More footsteps. More people. The crackle of rocks slipping. The echoing thump of rubble being cleared away. Space opens up around me.
Hope.
I can’t tell how many are here. Talking. Shouting. All of them in heavy boots. Stomping. Slipping. Crunching. They smell of sweat, acrid like onions. And their faces are smudged with too much dirt and soot to make out the details of them. How many others have they saved? How many hours have they worked?
Inch by inch, they prep me. It’s meticulous.
It takes hours.
It takes years.
My neck is clamped into a brace. Hard and plastic. I can’t move. But I’m finally lifted. Gently. Slowly. The shock of movement makes me shiver. Everything shakes. My stomach. My hands. My chest. My teeth.
I’m strapped to a board, hard and flat. But stable. The snaps of buckles echo. Straps across my shoulders. Down my chest. Around my legs. I know it’s for my own good. To keep me safe. But it feels like being stuck again, and part of me wants to fight against it.
Then a soft blanket. Clean. Comfort.
I’m lifted. Carefully. Slowly.
“Watch her arm.” A woman now, her voice clear. Firm. In charge.
I twist. Trapped again.
On this board.
In these clamps.
But the world around me is real. It isn’t dust and dirt and teetering table legs. It isn’t the too-dark darkness. It isn’t Charlie silenced. It is whole and wide-open and feels like it could go on forever. It’s so much bigger than me.
I’m a smudge against the sky.
The one with the big hands still talks in my ear. Tells me I’m safe now.
“Charlie,” I try to say. But my mouth is too dry.
I try to point. To tell them where he is. I don’t want to leave my friend behind. Because they’re taking me somewhere else. We jostle our way across, up and over and through. I swing to the side when someone slips against the crackle of rubble under their feet. They steady me quickly. Make me flat again.
The air smells different. Not like salt and ocean. It’s charred. Burnt.
The big hand squeezes mine once more.
“Stay with me,” the voice says. “Stay.”