The hole was, upon reflection, not getting any shallower.
Zhāo Yàn had checked. Several times. He had stood on his toes. He had jumped, once, which he immediately regretted due to his ribs having opinions about jumping. He had examined the walls .
The walls were dirt. They were straight. They were six feet tall and showed no signs of becoming shorter out of sympathy.
"We could call for help," Zhāo Yàn said.
Han Shān looked at him.
"We won't call for help," Zhāo Yàn said.
Han Shān looked back at the walls.
The afternoon light came down through the circle of sky above them in a thin, unhelpful column that illuminated mostly the mud and each other and the general extent of their situation.
Somewhere above, the village was going about its business entirely unaware that two cubs had fallen into what appeared to be an old game trap that had been dug, forgotten, and then politely covered by several seasons of grass and optimism.
Zhāo Yàn sat down.
