Weaving a hand through to test the size—the irregular shape—I realize how tight it’s going to be ...
The thought is dismissed in the very next second.
There’s no room for uncertainty.
I thread one arm through at a time and flatten my hands against the wall. Bulbs of anticipation burst in my belly as Ishove—only to ricochet backward from the snag of my hips.
They’re too wide.
The haunting knowledge lands a blow to my chest, knocking a bout of air from my lungs. Mind scrambling, white-hot panic boils my blood, and my movements become frantic.
I push, and push,and push,shoving hard, legs churning, finally letting out a squeal that’s distorted by water that feels too thick.
Too hot.
My limbs grow numb and heavy, and my chest starts to jerk, running out of breath.
I need to get out.
I bend at the hips, using my knees to propel myself in the direction I came in ... but my shoulders snag, the momentum slamming the back of my head against stone, pushing another burst of bubbles up my throat.
Emptying me.
Mind spinning, I lose track of which way is up.
Which way is down.
I lose control of my limbs and lungs, trapped on the threshold between two very different forms of captivity.
The realization comes, sudden and violent, that I’m going to die. That my lungs won’t pull another breath, and I’ll be found here, wedged in a hole because I fought to escape a man who’s put a roof over my head since I was too small and young to fend for myself.
A man who saved me from the grisly wrath of three Vruks that should have torn me to shreds.
My subconscious roars to life in those final, frantic moments when my heart slows and my body begins to spasm. In its wakefulness, it tosses little slices of memory at me in a random, disjointed manner.
There’s grass beneath my feet, sun on my face, a house in the distance blowing smoke from its chimney.
I like that house. I like the vines stuck to its walls and the way the sun touches it.
Home.
I see that little boy again, except he’s not so little compared to me. He’s sitting on the lawn amongst a patch of pretty flowers—legs crossed, hands stretched in my direction.
Reaching.
“You can do it! Just push your arms out like you’re flying and slide your foot forward ...”
I peep down at my feet, up again.
He nods. “You’ve got this, little one.”
He’s smiling at me, and I want to go to him.
I shuffle, lift a foot, step over a yellow flower ... look up again.
That smile is so much bigger now. “You’re doing it, Ser! Momma’s gonna be so proud of you!”
My knees wobble, and I fall, but he catches me—always catches me.
