Thousand: Four Hundred Fourteen

and the lights in his brain fade to an ache. “Shit!” He rubs his head. “I’m not bleeding. For once. Get a nice bump, maybe.” Bernie tips his head back and sees the shape of the grill covering the hole. “You better not be locked, you fucker.” He eases himself up, pushes with a hand. Nothing. So he moves closer, maneuvers his shoulder against the grill, takes a deep breath, and heaves with legs and back. And the grill shifts. Half clinging to the grill, Bernie feels around until he finds the new gap. He heaves again and lid grinds