She tried to sit up but something was holding her down. Not an inanimate object, but something warm that carried with it hope. The noise around her was deafening. People were screaming. Some were crying softly. Others prayed. She heard sirens, lots of them. Men, somewhere in the distance, were shouting things she couldn’t make out. The sound that was loudest of all was the creaking and grinding of twisted metal, as the train carriage seemed to be moving, inching along toward what she had no idea. She coughed, choking on the dust and smoke that filled the carriage, making it difficult to see anything or breathe. “Fiona. Are you all right?” The voice was so ragged, it took her a moment to make the connection. Then she realized the rasping tones were actually the voice most Americans connected with Luke Thompson. It was not as mellifluous as it usually was. “I don’t know,” she said, sounding like she’d swallowed gravel herself. “Move carefully,” Luke said. “Very carefully.”
