Adam

ADAM

It takes far longer than it should to find Amelia’s inhaler.

Her asthma attacks are few and far between, but I always think it is best to be prepared for the worst. Life made me think that way and I’m better off for it. Looking for my wife’s handbag is never an easy task—even for her—but trying to guess where she might have left it in an unfamiliar building, in complete darkness, is something that takes time. Time I know she doesn’t have. When I finally feel the leather bag, I find the inhaler inside, and rush back to the trapdoor. Bob has started scratching at the wood, and I can hear Amelia crying.

“You need to find the steps,” I say.

“What do you think I’m trying … to do?”

She can’t breathe.

“Okay, I’ll come down.”

“No! Don’t, you’ll … fall.”

“Stop talking and focus on your breathing. I’m coming.”

I feel my way slowly, one foot connecting with one step at a time, the sound of Amelia’s panicked breathing guiding me in the darkness. I find her against the opposite wall from where she needed to be, and put the inhaler in her trembling hands. She shakes it and I hear two puffs. Then the power comes back on, the fluorescent tube on the ceiling flickers back to life, and the crypt is bathed in ghostly light.

“There must be a generator,” I say, but Amelia doesn’t answer. Instead she just clings to me and I wrap my arms around her. We stay like that for a long time and I feel oddly protective of her.

What I should feel is guilt, but I don’t.