6.
Anya is standing outside the door,
her face a patina of panic and confusion.
The door is solid wood and locks
from the inside, but swings open onto the outside. Behind us exists a sort of
gravel-covered, fenced-in no man’s land which surrounds two small, blue plastic
and metal dumpsters. One for refuse and another for recyclables. There’s some
concrete blocks and some two-by-fours set beside the dumpster.
The door opener rattles and begins
to open. I push it shut with my arm and shoulder.
“Grab that two-by-four,” I bark.
She does it.
I take hold of it with my left
hand, jam one end into the gravel, then shove the other end under the brass
closer. Pulling myself away from the door, I search for a way out of that small
yard.
“This won’t hold for more than a
few seconds,”
