“Can you move?”
He tried and then said, "I can’t. I think I'm trapped.”
His fingertips brushed cool, jagged edges. Dust and cold concrete filled the space that his legs should have. A hole had been punched through his stomach.
“Me too. Where are you?”
The rubble choked sound of her voice limped into his ears. Her question was pointless; earth quaking bombs had brought the basement's ceiling down between them, trapping each in a separate plot.
"I'm... somewhere," he said hesitantly, "I don't know." Darkness surrounded him, so impossibly dense it seemed that lens caps covered his eyes. He knew no pain, but uncomfortable tightness strangled his chest and a beaten will told him that he wouldn't be dancing any time soon.
He fished a box of matches from his shirt pocket and lit one, sending a tiny bead of white flame soaring down the wooden stick. At war with