Page 50 of The Storm

“Don’t know. I nodded off too.”

Something creaks somewhere above. Both of us freeze. Nothing else happens, though.

I slowly stretch out my hand in the darkness. My fingers graze the wall almost immediately. I move my other hand. Same thing.

There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere I won’t be touching things.

I’m on the verge of losing my shit again, but my head is fuzzy enough from the heat and the thickness of the air that my body doesn’t seem to have the energy.

I swallow hard.

“Okay,” I say, because saying something feels preferable to saying nothing. Saying something grounds me in a way. “That’s… fine.”

It isn’t.

And I’m not convincing enough.

My chest rises a little faster, and then faster again.

Nick’s hand finds my wrist in the dark. “Slow down,” he says quietly.

I try to match his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Again and again.

The space doesn’t get any bigger, the air doesn’t get any fresher, but I get a tad steadier. He doesn’t tell me to get off him, and I stay put. I feel a bit woozy, but I’m pretty sure that’s down to the lack of oxygen in this place.

“I should’ve joined the scouts,” I say.

His legs shifts, but then it settles again. “Because?”

I wave my hand in the air. “Don’t they prepare you for stuff like this?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, “this is exactly what they cover. Page one. What to do when you’re buried alive in a walk-in fridge.”

I raise my middle finger in front of his face.

“I guess it’s hard to prepare scouts to die.” It’s a sign of the kind of numbness that has taken over me that I can say it so casually. Being flippant makes it feel less like a real possibility.

“Is that the spirit of a fighter?” he asks.

“Maybe I don’t have that.”

He’s silent for a bit. “That’s a blatant lie. You’ve been fighting with me for years with no sign of giving up.”

I stare into the darkness with no idea what to say to that.

“Think about it this way. If you die… I win.”

I roll my eyes. “Proper motivation if I’ve ever heard it. I’ll go dig us out of here with my bare hands.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “How long do you think they’ll?—”

“Think about something else,” he says.

“I’m going to think about dying extra hard now.”

He blows out a breath and flicks my earlobe. I raise my eyebrows at the darkness above.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“I told you a story. Return the favor.”