The smallest sob. My mother's as she cried all to herself.
That was worse than all the noise put together.
Andrew's thumb stops its circling. "Erica?"
"I'm fine." But no "I'm fine" has ever sounded less fine than that one. It's strangled and wrong, and the walls are pressing in, and suddenly, the elevator isn't just small, it's tiny, shrinking by the second, and I can't
breathe, I can't breathe, I can't fucking breathe—
My chest constricts like someone's wrapped it in plastic wrap and keeps pulling tighter, tighter, tighter. The darkness isn't just dark anymore—it's alive, pressing against my eyeballs, filling my mouth, my nose, my lungs.
"Erica." Bastian sounds far away, like he's calling from the other end of a tunnel.
"Erica, look at me."
"Can't—" I gasp. "Can't see—too dark—"
The flashlight beam swings up toward the ceiling as he sets it on the floor and drags me down to a seat.
