“You don’t understand. The people inside, they’re going to hurt themselves. They don’t know there’s no fire.”

She was in front of the doors to Elevator Number Two. From inside she could hear screams and thuds.

“Well, I’m not authorized.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Dance stepped past him and grabbed a screwdriver from his tool kit, a long one.

“Hey, you can’t—”

“Let her, Harry,” another worker said. “It don’t sound too good in there.”

The screams were louder now.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered. “I’ll do it.”

He took the screwdriver and set it down then extracted a separate tool from the bag, an elevator door key. He slipped it into the hole and a moment later was muscling aside the doors.

Dance dropped to her belly, hit by a disgusting smell wafting out of the car, vomit, sweat, feces, urine. She squinted. Security lights, mounted on the CCTV camera inside the elevator, were glaring into her face. The ceiling of the car was about eighteen inches above the hospital’s linoleum floor. To Dance’s surprise, the passengers were fairly calm, their attention on two of their fellows: a pregnant woman, the source of the screaming. And a man in a hospital uniform was passed out, though vertical, since the car was so packed. His face was an eerie blue.

“The fire’s out! You’re safe!” This was the best way to convince them to calm, she’d decided. Telling them it was a prank, much less an intentional attack, didn’t seem advisable.

“He’s dying!” somebody called, nodding at the man who seemed to be an orderly. One passenger suddenly snapped, stepped on a fellow occupant and boosted himself up. He lunged and grabbed Dance’s collar, trying to pull himself out. Dance screamed as her head was jammed against the metal frame of the car, cutting into her cheek.

“No, listen!” she shouted.

But he wasn’t listening.

“Stop!”

She herself felt the growing strains of panic grip her. She began pounding the man’s hand. Useless. Her head, sideways, was partway inside now, wedged completely still. She was feeling dizzy from the fumes and the dismal air. And that unbearable feeling of being unable to move. She tasted blood, dripping from the gash into her mouth.

Jesus…

No choice.

Sorry.

Dance reared her head back, wrapped her teeth around the man’s thumb and, tasting blood and tobacco, bit down hard.

He screamed—a sound lost amid the pregnant woman’s wailing—and he released her.

“I’m a doctor,” said a pale middle-aged passenger, who seemed very groggy. “He needs a tracheotomy. Now.”

“That man!” she called, pointing to the orderly. “Get him over here.”

Several of the passengers grabbed the man’s collar and waist and pulled him off the floor then together they all handed him overhead, mosh pit–style. Dance gestured for two medics from Emergency to help and together they got the man out.

“We’ll get him downstairs.” They placed him on a gurney and sprinted away.

Michael O’Neil came running up. “Fire’s out in the basement. You all right?” He frowned, looking at her face.