I try not to panic.

  But the air—it’s thick, heavy, wrong.

  Each breath feels tighter than the last.

  I slam my fists into the lid again, yelling, even though I know no one can hear me.

  Dirt sifts in through a crack above.

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  It falls onto my face, my mouth.

  I spit and gasp.

  I have to stop.

  I’m going to suffocate if I don’t get control.

  I close my eyes, force myself to breathe slower.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  My hands explore the cramped space.

  There’s something in my pocket.

  I fumble and pull out… a lighter.

  My fingers are shaking as I flick it.

  A tiny flame bursts to life.

  I see blood.

  On my hands.

  On the wood.

  And something else…

  A torn note, crumpled against my leg.

  I open it, heart racing.

  Only one word is written on it, in messy ink: “Run.”