Chapter 23: Nineteen Flights

The smoke came up fast, black at the ceiling and gray at my knees.

I pressed my sleeve to my mouth and went down on the concrete where the air was thinner.

My inhaler was empty after two more puffs.

I threw it at the door.

The padlock didn't move.

"Marco," I said, into the earbud, and heard only static.

I pounded on the steel with my fist, and every blow cost me a breath I didn't have.

Somewhere below, a long way down, a siren started.

It was not enough.

My chest locked.

It was the old feeling, the closing fist, and this time there wasn't a rescue inhaler in anyone's pocket.

The edges of my sight went gray, and I lay on the cold floor and thought, very clearly, of my grandmother's kitchen.

Then something hit the other side of the door.

A bang. Another.

Metal screamed.

The hasp tore out of the frame, and the door swung in, and smoke boiled around a figure with a fire axe.

He had a wet jacket over his head.

He pulled it off.

It was Dylan.

His face was black with soot, and his eyes were wide and red.

"Nina."

I couldn't answer.

He dropped the axe and knelt, and his hands hovered over me without touching.

He looked at my blue lips.

I saw him understand, all at once, what he had never let himself see for six months.

"Nina," he said. "I'm going to ask you."

I stared at him.

"I'm going to ask. Do you want me to carry you?"

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