Page 57 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
Another violent shudder ripples through the wall. The sound above is like a giant exhaling—long, low, and dangerous.
“Cam—don’t move!” Theo’s shout is sharp, almost panicked.
I freeze, still clutching Jamie’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering either of us to the real world.
Dane’s voice cuts through, deep and steady despite the strain. “We’re not leaving him. Hold on.”
The building groans again, and something showers down on the back of my neck — dirt, dust, maybe bits of rotted plaster. My scalp prickles.
I squeeze Jamie’s hand tighter. “They’re coming. Just hang on.”
He doesn’t answer this time, but his fingers twitch in mine.
Somewhere behind me, Theo snarls with effort. Dane’s breathing hard, the sound edged with primal determination.
The walls creak louder. Something shifts under my knees, and for a horrible moment, I think the floor might give way.
But I don’t let go.
Chapter thirty-seven
Dane
The whole ruin is breathing wrong.
Every creak is a countdown. Every puff of dust is a warning. I plant my shoulder into a listing post and feel the weight of thirty rotten years lean back at me like a tired giant.
“Theo—wedge!” My voice comes out tight, clipped. He’s already there, jamming a splintered joist into the gap we just opened. The groan above us evens out to a low, steady complaint. Not good. Not catastrophic. Yet.
Cam is flat on her stomach in a slit of space where the ceiling came down, reaching in up to the elbow. Her knuckles are white around Jamie’s hand. “I’ve got him—he’s breathing—” she says, breath ragged through the dust.
“Good.” I cut a look at her. Her face is grey with grit and streaked tears, pupils blown wide.
We need leverage. We need a controlled release, or the whole back half of this wall comes down and takes us with it.
“Talk to me,” I call toward the rubble. “Jamie?” Nothing; then the faintest tap-tap through the debris—two beats. He heard me. Relief spikes fast and mean.
“Plan,” Theo rasps, eyes watering. He points with his chin. “This beam’s the fulcrum. If we brace left and lift here, we can crawl him out.”
I clock the angles in a glance. “That buys us a foot. Maybe enough.” I scan the ruin—rotted door, half a staircase, a run of handrail. Cribbing, lever, wedge. We can build something.
“Cam, don’t move,” I say. “Tight grip. Keep him grounded.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “He’s warm,” she says, voice breaking on the word. “His hand—he’s trying.”
“I know,” I whisper. The thought of Jamie crushed by a building, of never bantering with him again…I breathe hard and focus.
We move. Theo and I haul the old door over, lay it across two chunks of masonry, then wedge a third under the opposite end—makeshift sawhorses. He hacks the banister into lengths with the camp saw, hands me two pieces, keeps two for himself. I wedge mine under the sagging beam at alternating angles; he does the same on the far side. Our eyes meet in the dust fog and we count with nods of our heads.
One, two, three...
We lean in. The ruin hisses through its teeth. The beam gives a fraction, then another. Stone shifts with the ugly scrape of old bones. Over the racket I hear Cam, low and fierce: “That’s it, Jamie—stay with me.”
The opening swells to the size of a bread loaf. “Stop,” I hiss. We ease pressure. Everything settles—not safe, but stable.
“Can you see him?” Theo asks, dropping to his knees beside Cam.
“Arm and shoulder,” she says. “He’s pinned at the ribs—maybe the hip. I can’t—” She sucks a breath that turns into a cough. “There’s a cross-beam across him.”
