Just when she believed she could stand the splitting no longer and her ribs would cave in the absence of air, the shaking stopped, and she gasped. She gasped as deeply as she could, coughing, letting go of Eunjoo’s hand and rubbing at her throat as if to restart blood flow. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Once she had enough air to set her vision straight, she grabbed Eunjoo’s shoulders, shook her. Was the girl breathing? “Chica? Chica, answer me.” Her body hung limply, her lips were bluish, her face pale in the low light. Her eyes fluttered. “Chica, goddammit, wake up.” Amy had crawled over, hovered beside Calliope, watching. Calliope tilted the girl’s head back, her head a rag doll’s, her neck stiff.

Amy was whispering again, but this time it sounded more like a prayer: “Don’t-die don’t-die don’t-die don’t-die …”

Calliope pressed her fingers to Eunjoo’s neck—did she feel a pulse? She couldn’t tell.

She laid the girl flat on the ground, found the space between her breast bones, clasped her hands together, pressed, afraid she would break the girl’s ribs, pressed but not too deep, pressed and counted, pressed and counted, pressed—

At fifteen she stopped, closed the girl’s nostrils, breathed two puffs into her mouth.

Wake this child up. She moved to press again and Eunjoo opened her eyes and sputtered, gurgling. Calliope lifted the girl, turning her face to the side as she vomited watery bile.

Calliope rubbed Eunjoo’s back as she vomited. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with her hand. “I feel flat.”

Calliope smiled. “Me too, baby. Me too.” She hugged the girl, wanting to say, Thank you for not dying, but she refrained.

“What was that?” Amy asked. “I’ve never felt an earthquake like that—it literally squeezed my brain together, like, my head was smooshed, my chest, my ass cheeks, everything.”

Chance was still grabbing miscellanea from the hangar shelves, throwing objects at the door, barricade-style. If he’d been squashed too, he didn’t let on.

“Hello, earth to cowboy,” Amy said. “What are you even doing?” To Calliope, she hissed, “He’s nuts.”

Without pausing from his work, he said, “That wasn’t the worst of it, believe me. It’s not over. Help me bar the doors. We need to find something to seal it.” Under his breath: “I shouldn’t have busted the lock.”

“Seal it? Like a coffin? Nuh-uh. I want off this crazy train.” Amy stood.

Calliope agreed—she didn’t want to be trapped in a freezing hangar where she’d seen her great-grandmother’s ghost then been nearly asphyxiated by some mysterious force. The only thing she knew that could so radically change the air pressure for that extended time was a fuel-air explosive, a vacuum bomb. She turned to Chance. “Are we being attacked?”

“Not yet.” He was climbing a shelf, throwing down gear. “Help me.”