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happening painfully slowly, but my brain is racing. How long has it been?
    The voices from above sound very far away. Then Bill is beside me, shouting, “Get the shovels from the truck.”
    My arms are aching already. The middle finger on my left hand hurts. I think I’ve torn the nail off. I don’t stop. I ignore the pain and keep digging. How long can I keep this up? I keep scratching, digging, throwing.
    My hand hits something sharp. I have a moment of wild hope. But it is only the broken end of the black wood that Annabel had crouched beside.
    â€œShe’s over here,” I yell and move a foot and a half to my right. Bill’s and my hands keep hitting each other, we’re working so close together. I can hear him gasping for breath as he digs feverishly. I realize I am breathless too. My lungs hurt almost as much as my arms do.
    My hand gets entangled in some buried seaweed or grass. I yank it angrily. It comes up clutching a bunch of red hair. It takes me a moment to recognize what I have.
    â€œI’ve found her.” I scream it, even though Bill is right beside me. The hair’s all over the place. Bill reaches Annabel’s forehead. We scoop sand away.
    She must have looked up when the wall above her collapsed. We soon have her face clear. I almost faint with relief when she gags weakly and spits out a mouthful of sand.
    â€œHere’s the shovels.” I look up and see Kelly standing on the edge. Two shovels slide down and bump to rest beside us.
    â€œThank you,” Bill shouts. “Do you have any water?”
    A one-liter plastic bottle bounces down. I rip the lid off and pour the water over Annabel’s sandy face. I laugh out loud when she complains, “Hey.”
    â€œAre you okay?” I ask. I know it’s a stupid question, but I’m not thinking clearly.
    â€œDo I…look okay?” Annabel replies, gasping for breath.
    â€œHave you broken anything?” Bill’s question is much more sensible than mine.
    â€œI don’t…think so.” Annabel’s taking shallow, short gasps for breath. “Tight…around my…chest…and my leg’s…sore…but okay. No need to… tear my hair out.”
    â€œSorry,” I gasp.
    â€œHang in there,” Bill says. “We’ll have you out in no time.”
    Bill and I start digging around Annabel. A lot of sand came down, and Bill keeps looking nervously at the bank above us. Once we’ve got dug down a bit, Annabel manages to free her right arm and help. When her chest is free, her breathing becomes easier.
    â€œI’m going to try and haul you out,” Bill says. We’ve dug almost to Annabel’s waist. The sand keeps sliding back into the hole as we dig, and it’s only going to get worse the deeper we go.
    â€œOkay,” Annabel says.
    Bill crouches down and grasps Annabel under her armpits. He pauses for second, takes a deep breath and hauls. Nothing happens. I start scraping sand away with my shovel.
    â€œCareful with that,” Annabel says. “I don’t want to survive being buried alive just to have you hack me to bits with a shovel.” She sounds cheerful enough, but I saw her grimace in pain when Bill pulled.
    â€œSee how far you can get reciting Pi before we get you out,” I suggest.
    â€œThe way you guys are going, I’ll break the world record,” she says, but she begins, “3.141592653589793…”
    We dig a bit more and then Bill tries again. This time Annabel moves. I work as hard as I can to scrape sand away. Bill pulls a third time. With a scream, Annabel comes free, and we all fall back against the far wall. Sand cascades around us.
    â€œCome on,” Bill says. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Half carrying Annabel between us, we head toward the parking lot, where the gully is shallower. Eventually, we climb out and pull Annabel up after us. We sit gasping beside one of the