And the bitter scent of blood, stronger now. Mine? I don’t think I am dead. But I am underneath something very heavy and my lungs hurt too much to breathe and don’t seem to have room to expand anyway. I need to find the strength to move my arms and push the weight off me. I try to think about my arms, about where they are. I move my fingers. I am not dead. I cannot move much else though. A breath manages to work its way into my chest and the feeling is like having your diaphragm stabbed with a blunt object. The weight moves, it rocks and I am sure I can hear the sound of someone groaning in effort. The pressure is off my arms a little, I can move my right arm, I can push with it and I do and then cold air finds my face. I gasp and it hurts like hell but the weight is gone and I can see the arches of light on the walls cast by the torch from where I have left it on a box. Two faces come into my line of vision: a man and a girl. They are pooled in shadow; my eyes try to adjust.
