I scramble to my feet. But the rolling balls make the terrain uneven, and I stumble again, landing hard on my knees.

Jamie won’t be able to find me down here. We’ll miss our appointment with Mr. Stewart. All this work. All these dreams. Buried in the rock pile, just like the little girl who fell down the coal hole. Now what? There’s no crane to pull me out, no chain for me to scale.

The Titanic hits a wave, and hysterical laughter sloshes out of me like tea from a teacup.

Without windows in the closet, the stuffy air begins to reek of my own sweat. I’m going to breathe all the air out of this room. The more I think about suffocating, the faster my breath comes.

I’m six years old all over again, trapped like a tiny mouse in a watering can. The coal chute was too high and slippery. I tried to climb it, but every time, I slid back into the rock pile, cutting my knees and palms. Black dust filled my nose and mouth, like gunpowder rammed into a musket. Two bullies named darkness and cold pinned me down, and the biggest bully, isolation, took punches.

I gather my knees to my chest, trying not to cry.

Ba always said life is for the strong. But I can’t help thinking that he was wrong about that. There are moments to be strong, but there are also moments to be weak. And in those moments of rest, we find strength anew and challenge ourselves to grow bigger than we ever thought possible.

So I order my shaky pins to grit down and my panicked lungs to breathe. Focusing on the drone of the ship’s engine, I close my eyes. I slow my breath, inhaling as if drawing a bucket of water from a well, and exhaling as if pouring it back.

I picture Jamie and myself, standing on opposite ends of a wire. Folks have come from all over to witness our feats of amazement. The band stops playing, save for a pattering drumroll. Breaths are held. Eyes widen. Jamie gives the nod, and we begin to fly.

Sweat trickles down my forehead. How long have I been here? I have to get out. Life is streaking by, and there’s not a second to waste. I twist at the doorknob again, feeling for the keyhole under the knob. If only I had something to pick the lock.

I stand and roll my shoulders, my wrists, then my ankles, feeling the weight of my single boot. My boot. I kneel and pull out the shoelace with its aglets of high-quality metal, not glue or wax.

I work an aglet into the keyhole. What am I feeling for?

Several minutes, maybe hours, pass. I feel something catch. But no, it isn’t the lock; it’s the aglet. The bugger has gone crooked and is now unusable.