Papa’s words reassure me, bolstering my will. Before it can fade, I slide into the compartment and lie fully back. The boards cover me only to my hips. Brouwer assists in guiding Evelien to lay alongside me. All will be fine, I decide. This is all the two of us have to do. Just lie here for a bit.

But as Brouwer lowers the bottom slat, every inch of me goes rigid. Panic springs from the chasms of my mind.

I close my eyes to send my soul elsewhere. Any place peaceful and open and bright. Yet only nightmares come flooding back, of being trapped in a stairwell, a basement, a casket. A grave, buried alive.

An impulse shoots through me to scramble and jump out while I’m still able.

Right then, a hand grasps mine. Arie offering comfort.

Except he’s not here.

It’s Evelien, and her little hand isn’t extending comfort but seeking it for herself. I catch the worry in her face an instant before all goes black. I feel her trembling, hear her quickened exhales. They persist through the rustling of the contents Brouwer is returning to the crate.

I bring our clasped hands to my chest. “Shh,” I soothe raggedly. “Easy, now. Listen to my breaths. Just breathe.” I detect the quiver in my own voice. Still, I force my breathing to slow. Gradually it submits, coaxing hers to do the same. I find the crown of her head and stroke it the way I imagine Thea would have done. “That’s it,” I assure her. “We’re hiding together. See? Just playing a game.”

Moments later, noises affirm the replacement of the lid. Then comes a thud and sliding. A case set on top, trapping us further. My heart contracts.

Brouwer asks, “Everything all right in there?”

Just breathe, I tell myself. It is okay, it is okay.

I have to be okay for Evelien.

I manage a “yes” that I’m not at all sure is audible until he says, “Then we are off.”

Within seconds, the engine rumbles and we’re rolling down the alley. The lumber around us vibrates and squeaks. A light clinking of glass travels from elsewhere in the truck. Our sway to the right suggests a left turn. Once straightened, we bump and rock over the first of many roads that will deliver us to Den Bosch.

If all goes as it should.

“Nice and calm,” I murmur recurrently. To Evelien as much as myself.

The heat of our breaths turns the compartment humid as the drive continues, the route unseeable, the path unplanned.

This—all of this—so flagrantly defies my meticulously honed system: testing, practicing, improving. Crafting a backup. Repeating the steps. Doing them again. Rechecking every tool and prop. Calculating for probabilities of success.