I would have to fire again. The question was, Should I use my left hand and thereby possibly break both wrists, or stay with my right, since the damage was already done? I decided to stay with my right. A little less pain was not as valuable as having the ability to do something with my left hand.

I fired the gun again. Pain to the third power. My eyes dispensed a flood of tears that were unconnected to emotion. I tried to remind myself that there was actually a time in my life when I hadn’t known such agony.

But the gunshots had made a slight difference. I’d seemingly shot off some of the tape. I was now able to force my left pinkie finger through the hole, though in withdrawing it, I cut myself badly. I tried to force the barrel of the gun through the aperture. It was the only tool I had.

Gunther had brought over Gail, who was dazed. “Gail,” I gasped. “Put your mouth down against the floor and see if you can breathe in some air.” I guided her head down, trying to position her mouth where the aperture might be. After half a minute, she pulled away. “Now you,” she gasped.

I lay on my belly and tried to get my mouth close to the tiny space. I didn’t get much air, but it was something. Then I signaled her to go again. I let her go twice because I had the gun. After that, I gave Gunther his turn.

We went on like this for minutes, but it was a losing battle. Each thin sip of air we were able to suck in was no match for the glacier of lethal gas that was burying us, although we couldn’t identify it with any of our senses, but only by our growing delirium and utter debilitation.

Finally, while Gunther was at the airhole and I realized that in another ten minutes we would be unable to move and therefore would die, I said to Gail, “So . . . I have a plan.”

“Well, yes, dammit, Ray,” rasped Gail. “I’ve been waiting.”

I said, “One or two more shots from this gun and maybe I can force a hole big enough to put its barrel through.”

Gail had to take another ration of thin air. When she was done, I took my turn, then let Gunther go again, as I told her, wheezing, “You two will get to the back of the truck. Then I’ll try to . . . angle the gun to shoot the gas tanks at the back of the cab. If I’m lucky . . . they might explode . . . and open a way for us to get out.”

Gail’s breathing was that of an aged man on his deathbed. It was a horrible sound to come from someone so young. “Is there more to the plan?” she asked me.

I shook my head. “No. Did you hear that, Gunther?”