Page 44 of The Storm

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs start to burn so viciously that it hurts.

I suck in air, and it’s too fast and too shallow. Because there is no air. There’s nothing to breathe. We’ve run out, and we’re going to suffocate, and it’s been a while since I’ve had that feeling, and I’d forgotten just how horrible it is.

I try to stretch my arm out, but my elbow slams into something hard. Walls are everywhere, and the little air there is is cold and thick andwrong.

I suck in another shallow breath. My hand finds the floor and the wall, and it’s too close.

Another short inhale. I try to sit up, but my head slams into something above me.

I turn my head and blink, trying to see, but there’s only darkness.

“Nick?” My voice breaks. I try again. “Nick.”

My breathing stutters.

Why isn’t he answering? Did he—where is he?

“Nick!”

A warm hand on my wrist.

Hot breath against the shell of my ear.

“I’m here.”

My fingers dig into his arm.

“I can’t—” I try to breathe again, but there’s no air. “I can’t breathe.”

“Hey.” His voice is steady. Rough. But steady. “You’re fine. We’re both fine.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t get it. I can’t breathe.

“No.”

“You are.”

I shake my head again. I’m breathing in darkness instead of oxygen. It’s everywhere, stacked on top of me in layers that press down on my chest, compressing my lungs.

“We’re stuck,” I manage to say.

“We’re okay,” he says. “I promise. The fridge held. It’s just those fucking shelves. We’re okay.”

My lungs very much disagree. We’re trapped in here.

His body presses against my side. His hand goes to the side of my neck.

“Is this panic or is this your asthma?” he asks, all calm and businesslike.

I shake my head again. Can’t even speak anymore, but something in his voice gets to me. I pat down my pockets and pull out my inhaler.

“Easy,” he says.

I try to breathe out. It comes out shaky. It’s not enough.

“Out?” he says.

I concentrate as hard as I can and exhale.