The vent is a tight fit, but when I finally slide out of the second opening, relief washes over me. Being squished, sliding through a passage coated in grime, and unable to breathe wasn’t at the top of my ‘to-do’ list.
My muscles ache from the contortion, and my clothes are smeared with the evidence of my claustrophobic journey.
I’m barely on my feet when I hear footsteps approaching. I duck behind a pile of boxes, pulling a scrap of material over me to hide. It’s thick with dust, and I have to fight not to cough and give myself away.
The air is musty and stale, and I can feel the grit settling in my throat, making my eyes water. My heart races as I hold my breath, straining to hear any movement over the pounding in my ears.
From what I can see, I’m in some storage room. The walls are
