She blinks back tears. “Mick, don’t leave me. Please, I don’t want to die alone—”

“You’re not going to die—”

“The air, how much air’s left?”

He searches the control console, checking the gauge. “Almost three hours. Try to stay calm—”

“Wait, don’t go yet.” She grips his hand. “Just hold me a minute. Please.”

He kneels down, placing his right cheek gently against hers, feeling her muscles quivering as he hugs her and inhales her scent. He whispers in her ear, “I’ll get us out of here, I promise.”

She squeezes him tighter. “If you can’t—if there’s no way out—promise me you’ll come back.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “I promise.”

They hold on to each other for several more minutes until the constriction of Mick’s wet suit becomes unbearable.

“Mick, wait. Reach under my seat. There should be a small kit filled with emergency supplies.”

He pulls out the tin suitcase and opens it, removing a knife, a handful of flares, and a butane lighter.

“There’s a small air tank beneath the seat as well. Pure oxygen. Take it.”

He removes the tank, which is attached to a plastic mask. “It’s a lot of equipment to carry. I should leave this for you.”

“No, you take it. If you run out of air, then we’re both dead.”

He slips his sneakers back on, secures the knife to his ankle with adhesive tape, then opens the valve of the larger air tank to verify that the regulator is working. He hoists the BCD vest and tank onto his back, then secures the smaller tank of oxygen around his waist by its Velcro strap. He shoves the flares and lighter into the vest, then, feeling like a pack mule, pulls himself up the ladder of the minisub, which is now listing at a thirty-degree angle.

Mick unbolts the hatch, takes a deep breath, then tries to push it open.

Nothing.

If I’m wrong about the pressure, we’ll both die right here. He pauses; weighing his options, then tries again, this time wedging his shoulder beneath the titanium lid. With a hiss, the hatch frees itself from its rubber housing and opens.

Mick pushes his way out of the minisub, climbing out on top of the hull, allowing the hatch to slam shut as he stands—Whack! He bites into the regulator as the top of his head smacks painfully against a rock-hard ceiling.