By Chris Krechowiecki-Shaw

Dust. Beneath his mask, Pongkan tastes the bitter, dry coating on his tongue, feels the particles grinding when he moves his teeth. It reeks of smoke, not the purifying scent of sandalwood, but a sticky, suffocating miasma of burning plastics and oil. Heart racing, breath ragged, he creeps onwards, deeper into danger. With each step, he probes the jagged blocks of shattered concrete, between their twisted steel spears.

He listens. Sirens and screams outside only register as dull murmurs. The chaotic rain of pebbles continues, tumbling through the earthquake-strewn wreckage of this once vibrant tower block. In the darkness, memories bubble through his mind. His granddaughter, the chuckling baby in his arms, the toddler he carried on his shoulders, the child he baked bananas with on a fire, in the fragrant cool of a summer night. Usanee. Missing. The word gnaws at the pit of his stomach.

This is stupid, he thinks. I shouldn’t be here. But I have to find her, before it’s too late!

“Hello? Usanee, are you there?”

A creak. He stops. The frozen knife of panic stabs his chest. He retraces his steps, decisive and careful, fighting all instincts screaming at him to panic and run. Behind him, there’s a groan, which grows to a thunder, resonating every bone in his body. The air blast, rough with sharp fragments, knocks him to the floor. He is tumbling and spinning in the void, no fixed point of reference, metallic pain blossoming in his nostrils. He curls himself into a ball. His world stops spinning, the ringing in his ears dies, the rattle of falling debris slows. He struggles up, legs shaking.

“Hello?”

“Help me, please!” It’s a small voice, a child.

He scrambles towards the sound. He knows it’s not who he seeks. It’s not Usanee, his little light, but it’s someone else’s grandchild. That someone will feel just like him, each heartbeat a pulse of unbearable anxiety, grasping at hope that each second slips through their fingers. He grips the child’s hand. She’s trembling with fear, but uninjured. He digs, to free her legs from the rubble. 

“All right, keep hold of my hand, follow me,” he says. “I know a safe way out.” 

Touch will guide him through this deadly maze once more. He’ll get her back to her family, but he knows in his heart he’ll be coming back here and searching, until he finds Usanee or his old bones have no more strength to support him.

“It’s pitch black,” she replies, “how can you see?”

“Ah, child,” Pongkan laughs. The feeling washes away the tightness gripping his chest, just for a moment. “Even in the light, I cannot!”