The big guy grabbed his hand to help him up. Pee Wee lunged at the girl. She hit him with the tree again. Then the guy was punching him hard. The last thing he saw was a knife.

"Whaaa?" He was confused by the knife.

He was caught between the guy hitting him, the tree branch with snakes, and the knife in his face. His vision failed and he went down. His eyes furred over for the last time. He never knew that the knife was there to cut off his finger.

Thirty-four

Deepest dark now, and the panic was back. Coarse sand crusted Maslow's mouth and eyes. He was afraid that soon he would be covered with dirt. He scrabbled away at the gravel on either side of him. Dirt fell on him from above. His tongue worked constantly trying to clear his mouth and he had to restrain himself from using all his water to rinse it clean. He was terrified that the bank of packed sand over his head would fall, and he wouldn't make it through the night.

He could feel his hips, but his legs didn't seem to be part of him, and he didn't have the energy to shift toward his feet. He prayed for someone to come. As he listened to the muted city night sounds, he slipped into the far past and was assaulted by childhood memories again. A ferrous smell of disintegrating iron, the source of which he could not see, reminded him of the corrosion that had so irritated his father in the garden chairs and the grates over the basement wells at the house in Massachusetts.

The first whiff of rust made him think he must be under a grate with the fresh air and freedom above him. But he knew that could not be. He had not fallen down into something. He was stretched out straight, lying on a bed of pebbles and sand. Both air and sound were coming in from the direction of his feet It was possible that his legs were pinned, and that was the reason he could not move them. His explorations with his hands indicated that his upper body at least was wedged in under a shelf of caked sand and crumbling stone. Some large rock might be above that, but he could not feel the dimensions of it. He was in a hollowed-out shallow place, like a grave. He could not have fallen in such a way.

The air was cooling now, and the earth around him deeply chilled. The skin on his arms, his face, and his hands was so cold, in fact, that he wondered why he was not dead already. He was underground, buried alive. He made himself think of far colder places than this where people had survived horror. There was no heat in concentration camps. There had been no heat in the trenches in World War I. Soldiers in every war throughout history had survived worse conditions than this. Prisoners in the frozen gulags survived. Who else? Naked slaves in the holds of sailing ships crossing the ocean-starving, freezing, and seasick. Maslow made lists of survivors in his head. He thought of himself in a war, his enemy someone he'd trusted and tried to help. He thought of Chloe, only eleven years old, her whole body black-and-blue before she finally died. Her death was an atrocity. He'd survived that.

Coming from the direction of his feet, Maslow smelled night and rusting iron and thought of his passion as a boy for how things worked. He'd wondered at the way rust consumed shiny paint, gnawing the color and strong metal away from the inside and crumbling it into reddish brown dust. Every year, before Chloe died and the house was sold, he'd helped sand the rust off those garden chairs and paint them a deep green, only to see the patches of decay revived over the winter by the salty sea air.

He smelled something else-the chlorophyll in leaves, wet earth, and water. The smells reminded him of the sweet, fresh air of outdoor nights when Chloe and he used to catch fireflies and put them in a jar. Then, they'd sat side by side on the beach, watching the fireflies blink on and off and studying the stars. He'd never felt such companionship with anyone else since. Near death, he felt very close to Chloe now. The granola bar he clutched in his hand was the same as the ones they used to eat together as their snack in the afternoons. The granola bar had attracted an animal that scampered back and forth across his feet.

The first time the animal jumped on his shoe Maslow felt the weight of it and pins and needles in his feet. Pie grunted with terror and beat on his chest and hips with the fanny pack. The animal scampered away. But now it was back, scratching around in the dark. Maslow knew that as soon as he fell asleep, it would invade like a marauding army. It would chew its way into his fanny pack and eat his only food. If he was unconscious, it would eat him. In the slums rats gnawed on babies in their cribs. He'd seen the bites during his rotation in the ER. People had survived that, too. He hoped it wasn't a rat.

He could hear himself moaning and praying to God to save him. He dreamed of his old daddy, the one who used to sleep at home when he was little. He dreamed of his mommy before they lost Chloe, the mommy he had before her smile died. He'd never been her favorite. She used to call him "Maslow the nose" because he could always tell when she'd changed perfumes, or ingredients in food. If an herb or spice was left out, he'd identify it. She seemed to like that about him. He had one real skill. But that was it.

His father had a big nose that he despised. Maslow didn't like thinking his own nose would grow as prominent as the one his father disliked so much. He'd been hurt by his mother's nickname. But she told him his nose was a good thing. "Noses" were paid big money in perfume companies, at wineries, and all places where the palate counted.

"You have a palate, Maslow. If all else fails, you can smell for a living." And she'd laughed, but not really in a mean way.

The laughter and the name had hurt Maslow anyway. He'd wondered where one could smell for a living in America. Later he found out the nose played a role in the history of psychoanalysis. It was first thought by Freud and his best friend, Wilhem Fleiss, that sniffing cocaine could cure hysteria.

Maslow was exercising his fingers and arms, and letting his mind wander around his sister's death, his mother's decline, his father's withdrawal from their lives. He heard the swish of someone walking through grass, the crunch of feet on stones. His heart started pounding loud as thunder again. Someone was coming. No one was calling his name, so it must be Allegra returning for him as he'd prayed she would.

He closed his eyes. "Allegra?"

"Allegra." His cry was only a whisper.

Nothing.

"Don't go."

After a pause, he heard the harsh sound of metal grinding against stone. That ferrous smell. Then a worse smell. The smell of the lab, the autopsy room. Powerful. A sharp pinpoint of light stabbed at him from his feet in. He shut his eyes against it.

"Hey." It was a girl voice. Sharp as a knife, but not familiar at all.

"Allegra, help me," he said weakly.

"Jesus Christ, he's got fucking food!" Boy voice.

"And water!" Girl voice.

"Where did it come from? Hey, you!"

Someone kicked his feet, and the feet exploded with stabbing needles. Another kick, and tears poured out of his eyes.

The girl screamed, "Ahhhh. Did you see that?"

"Turn on the flashlight. I can't see a fucking thing."

"It's a rat."

"Jesus. Will you shut up." Someone crouched down and shone a powerful light on Maslow's wet, sand-crusted face.

"Help me."

"Look at that. He's alive!" Boy voice.

"Shit, now he's seen us."

Maslow couldn't believe it. They sounded like kids, little kids. He held out his hand to the person at his feet. "I can't see a thing. Help me out."

Sound of revulsion. "Don't touch him. He's disgusting."

Maslow was lying on his back, helpless as the two examined him from far enough away so that he could not grab them. He didn't want to debate the matter. "I promise no one will know," he said softly. "Just let me out."