“North? I was just joking.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t—”

“Did you manage to turn around?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. But I don’t have my picks, so there’s no way I can get this lock off.”

“How?”

“How did I turn around? Well, I’m not the approximate size of a water buffalo—”

“Hold on—”

“—and I don’t only work out shoulders and arms and ass when I go to the gym. I do yoga.”

“Fucking yoga again. And I don’t work out my ass.” A metallic ping came from Shaw’s crate. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for my knight in shining armor.”

“Never mind.”

“My big, butch, boot-wearing—”

“Ok, I get it. I was an asshole tonight.”

“—kicking asses and taking names—”

“Jesus Lord.” North settled himself in the crate and tuned out the rest of Shaw’s rant. It didn’t help that Shaw was right. For now, North needed to concentrate on getting them out of the cages. He set his head against the wall of wires, contorted his body as best he could, and brought his knee up to his chest. He drove his foot back with all the power he could muster. The cage rang out like a bell, the reverberations traveling from crate to crate, but the door held.

“What did you do?”

“I’m getting us out of this.”

“Oh, right. You probably learned how to bust out of wire cages when you were working your first job site—”

“Shaw.”

“You were, I forget, like six years old? Had your first toddler hard hat?”

“A six year old isn’t a toddler.” North drove another kick into the door, and the crate shook like it might fall apart. Something in the gate flexed and gave.

“And you were probably already working a crane or a wrecking ball, wearing your toddler-sized steel toe boots, smoking a pack of Camels a day and scratching your toddler-sized balls, and jacking around with the rest of the guys about how good their lays were the night before and where you were going to get a cold one after shift.”

North had to pause, water sloshing around his knees and wrists, long enough to muffle a smile—Christ, muffle a laugh—by turning his face into his shoulder. Thank God for the darkness. He kicked again, and this time the gate flexed outward. Close; North could tell he was close. When he trusted the steadiness of his voice, he said, “You wouldn’t know anything about my balls, so I’ll just tell you: they are definitely not toddler sized.”

Shaw’s voiced sounded smaller, farther away. “I forgot. In addition to the boots, and the Carhartt jacket, and your jackass-ish ability to kick your way through any problem, you also have a pair of steel ones the size of bowling balls between your legs.”

With one last kick, North felt the gate give way. It snapped free of the crate, and his foot continued into the air beyond. Splashing backward through the water, North let out a satisfied groan as his cramped muscles gained inch after inch of freedom. What would it feel like to spend an hour in there? Six hours? Twelve? Jesus, if he ever owned a dog, he’d buy the thing its own house.