The freezing Atlantic water rose past Elena Rostova’s knees.
It tasted of diesel bilge, oxidized copper pennies, and drowned kelp.
The cold was brutal, driving thirty-eight-degree needles through her canvas nursing trousers.
Beside her, Clara Vance gasped as the dark surge reached the leather cushion of her wheelchair.
The heavy steel wheels were pinned hard against the slotted floor drainage grate.
The downward slope of the tunnel floor funneled the sea straight toward their legs.
“Keep your breathing slow, Clara,” Elena commanded, her teeth vibrating from the chill.
“Do not hyperventilate. Look up at the caged ceiling lights.”
