“Yes, yes,” she said, sounding relieved. “I thought, well, I heard you screaming, and then you were quiet for so long, and you weren’t answering. I’m sorry, I thought...”

“It’s okay,” he said, remembering the lost finger, the bleeding hand. He felt the clenched fist balled up beneath him, but had no desire to move it away from his body. There would be no way to inspect the damage, anyway. No way for him to know whether he would live or die.

As he woke, he thought he could feel something down by his feet. Was something pulling at him? He wasn’t sure... but there was no pain. His legs were completely numb, the weight settled into his spine making sure they’d received none of the blood needed to fill their veins, feed their many nerve endings. He dismissed the loss of feeling as something currently out of his control and put it out of his mind.

“Hey Dee,” he said. “I think I screwed up pretty bad here.” He laughed, or thought about laughing. What came out was a soft hack followed by a groan. “It seems,” he continued, “I’ve lost a few bits of myself along the way.”

“But you’re alive,” Dee said, strongly, confidently. Almost a rebuke. Matthew marveled that the woman could have so much energy. She sounded so close. So close.

He reached his good hand toward the sound of her voice, started fingering the rubble.

“What are you doing?” Dee said, the slightest tinge of fear in her voice once more.

“Please,” he begged, holding back sobs as he picked apart the pieces of glass and concrete that formed a barrier between them. “Please, Dee,” he continued, “I think I’m going to die.”

There was no further protest from her, no commands for him to cease and desist from his tunneling. So he went on. A lumpy chunk of brick tossed aside, the light tinkling of falling glass. He continued to pull away bits and pieces.

He paused, listening. He could hear that she was also digging now. She was helping! He almost wept with relief and doubled his efforts, the tunnel he’d created now deep enough for him to reach in up to his elbow. There was a light scratching from a few feet away, as if Dee were doing the same.

“Thank you, Dee, thank you,” he said.

“I can’t move much,” she said, almost shyly. Again with that tone of apology.

“Can you reach your hand toward my voice?” he said, his arm now nearly fully extended toward her.

“Yes, I’m trying,” she said.

And then, then, as his fingers burrowed, he could sense an opening. A whisper of cool air brushed his fingertips, and then he had her. His fingers touched hers and they twined, groped for each other like horny teenagers in the backseat of a borrowed car. The coast is clear, he thought of saying, and gripped her fingers so tightly he had to make sure not to hurt her.

Her hand was warm, and dry. Her skin felt like dust.

“Matthew,” was all she said, as he sobbed and held her hand in a fevered grip.

“I’m dying, Dee,” he repeated, and the contact, that connection with another living being, opened a dam inside him and released all the fear and anxiety he had been holding back. “There’s a, a very large piece of concrete on top of me. It’s on my back. I think my back is broken, and I can’t feel my legs. I’ve bitten off a part of my tongue, and, please don’t ask me how, I’ve managed to lose a finger. And now I’m bleeding pretty bad here, yeah... and I’ve pissed myself, Dee. I’m sorry but I have and I think maybe I shit myself. I can’t feel anything but it’s pressing on me and it’s slowly crushing me to death.”

“Matthew, please,” she pleaded, begging him to silence. “Please, Matthew, please...” was all she said, until his words slowed, then stopped. He was so tired. So thirsty.

He wanted to die now. It was a horrible, empty feeling. He wanted to die.

“Matthew,” her voice came, sharp once more. Her hand squeezed his own hard, causing him to wince despite everything. “You need to stop, you hear me? You need to correct your thinking.”

Matthew, stunned at the scolding, like a slap in the face of someone hysterical, simply nodded in the darkness.

“I...”

“No,” she said, her words bullets to his brain. “You listen now. You’re going to get through this. You’re going to live. You’re going to be saved. Those are the words I want running through your head, you got that?”

Matthew nodded again.

“Say it.”

Matthew thought for a moment, then mumbled, “I’m going to get through this. I’m going to live. I’m going to be saved.”

“Good, good,” Dee cooed. “You just hold my hand, and you remember those words. You keep them running through your head like a cool river, understand? A bright blue stream of positive thoughts running right through you, refreshing you from the inside, okay?”

“Yeah, Dee,” he said, trying his best. I’m going to get through this. I’m going to live. I’m going to be saved.

He closed his eyes, imagined the words were soft water, running through him. He calmed, and, astonishingly, felt a little less thirsty.

“Dee?” he said, after a few minutes of silence. “Tell me something. Tell me about yourself.”

Dee’s fingers twitched within his, as if panicked, but then she gripped him tightly once more. “Okaaay,” she said, drawing the word out with what sounded like an amused tone. “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” he said, thinking. “What do you look like? How old are you? Do you have a family?”

She chuckled at his eagerness, and he smiled, relieved beyond measure. “Let’s see. I’m thirty-seven. I’m married. I have a husband, Frank, and two kids. Ten and twelve. Margret is the older, and Betsy, who was named after my great-grandmother.”

Matthew heard her stop, choking up a bit at the end. He didn’t want to make her sad, but he wanted her to keep talking. Needed her to keep talking.

“And what do you look like?”

She chuckled again.

“I imagine right now I don’t look like much of anything, I...” she stopped, as if distracted. There was a silence. Then, after a few more moments, she said, “I’m so scared.”

He gripped her fingers. “Me too,” he said quietly. Then, more loudly, playfully, “Now tell me what you look like.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I’m five-five, so I wear heels a lot to work. Don’t like always looking up at people.”

He choked a laugh, pressed her fingers to urge her on.

“I suppose most people think I’m pretty, but I’m very conservative. Frank and I don’t go out much, homebodies, I guess. And now with the kids, forget it.”

“And,” he started, unsure how to continue, “you’re okay? You’re not... you’re not hurt too badly?”

There was another pause. When she continued, it was not in answer to his question. It came out of her as if spoken from a trance. “I work on the second floor. I’m a paralegal with MacKenzie Douglas. When I left the house, Frank was getting the girls ready for school. He leaves later than I do for work. He’s the day manager of RJ’s Grill.”

“Hey, I’ve been there,” Matthew interjected, more to cut off Dee’s eerie monotone than true enthusiasm. “I’ve eaten lunch there. You know, I probably met your husband, or at least saw him.”

“Today I wore my favorite work dress. It’s cauliflower blue with tiny white daisies. I think I’ve ruined it. Ruined...” And then Dee was quiet, as if she’d run out of things to say. Matthew waited for her to continue, but she said nothing.

“Dee? You okay?”

Her hand felt suddenly lifeless in his own, and he wondered with a small degree of alarm if she’d passed out. He wanted to tug at her fingers, pinch her, shake her awake. But he resisted those urges, simply held her still hand in his.

“I’m twenty-eight,” he said, quietly. “I have black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Too pale for California, I’m always told. But I was born here. A native. Right here in Burbank. Weird, right?”

Dee’s fingers didn’t respond and she said nothing.