SHE HAD felt the crack of bone and the explosion of pain when the woman Matt was calling Tarzana—160 or 170 pounds—blindsided her. Now she simply bit at the inside of her lip and did her best to cope with the pain. They were in a fearsome predicament with a finite air supply and no obvious way out of the cave. The last thing the others needed was to worry about her. The newcomer, Ellen Kroft, essentially uninjured, kept pressure on Fred Carabetta’s wound while Matt used his ear as a stethoscope to examine the lungs of Colin Morrissey. “I think he’s moving enough air,” he said, “at least for the moment. His coma seems to be getting a little lighter, too.” “Let’s hope he’s sane when he wakes up.” “With his larynx swollen nearly shut, I don’t think he’s going to pose much of a problem. How’s your leg?” “Fine,” Nikki said perhaps a bit too quickly, adding, “It aches some.”
