Nothing.
He pushed again — harder.
The slab shifted an inch. Dust sifted down.
Mia whimpered.
“One more time,” Noah said through gritted teeth. “When I say pull, you pull.”
He strained — face red, arms shaking — until the slab slid sideways just enough.
“Pull, Mia — now!”
She dragged herself free, crying out as blood rushed back into her legs.
Noah wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hold on tight. We’re going back the way I came.”
They crawled — Mia whimpering with every movement, Noah whispering, “Almost there… almost there…”
Behind them something deep in the pile groaned.
They crawled faster.
When they reached daylight, Noah half-carried, half-dragged her down the last pile of debris.
Firefighters swarmed. Paramedics took Mia onto a stretcher.
She never let go of Noah’s hand.
“Don’t leave,” she begged.
“I’m right here.”
A firefighter looked at Noah — torn shirt, bleeding arms, dust-caked face — and shook
