It was a bona fide miracle, but Raylan managed to get hold of Art. Well, the nice fella with the comb-over managed to get a hold of him, but seeing as how he passed it off like a hot potato, Raylan was inclined to save his breath singing his praises.

He could feel Tim's eyes on him as he raised the phone to his ear. "Art?" he said. The line crackled, and he could hear Art's voice, but he might as well have been speaking in tongues for all the good it did Raylan. "Art, I can't—I can't hear a damn thing." He'd no sooner finished speaking than the line went dead.

In front of him, Tim's lips curled around a look that could've been a wry smile or a grimace; he really couldn't call it one way or the other. "No reception?" Even if he couldn't read his face, Raylan could read the strain in his voice. Tim was hurting. Pretty damn bad, too, if he had to hazard a guess.

He frowned. "Doesn't appear to be," he said. "I suspect it might have something to do with our being buried in the next best thing to a concrete bunker."

Raylan wasn't nearly as surprised as he probably should've been when Tim let out a chuckle, and yeah, he was definitely smiling, even if it stretched tight as a drum. "Could be worse," he told Raylan.

Raylan raised an eyebrow. "Think so?"

"Yep."

"How do you figure?"

"We could be in your hometown," Tim said.

A smile pulled at the corners of Raylan's lip. "That is one hell of a silver lining."

Tim just nodded and let his head fall back against the concrete pillar. Sheet pale as he was and taking those short little breaths, Raylan found himself hoping it was just 'cause he didn't feel like holding his head up any more, and not 'cause he couldn't.

Raylan's smile fell. He reckoned it didn't much matter which one it was, truth be told. Tim was a tough little son of a bitch, and from what little Tim was inclined to share when liquor loosened his lips, Raylan got the impression he'd been in worse jams than this.

That didn't change the fact that, if they didn't find a way out of here soon, Tim could be in for some trouble. And since Raylan had more or less decided he'd deck the man if he so much as tried to move from that spot against that pillar, that placed the ball squarely in Raylan's court.

"I'm gonna see if we can't get a better signal anywhere down here," he said. "You gonna be alright here for a second?"

Tim peeled an eye open, peering at Raylan through short lashes and heavy lids, and for a second, it reminded Raylan just a little too much of the way he looked at Raylan those lazy nights they spent on the couch, drinking whatever devil water they had on hand and only half paying attention to whatever was on the television. He felt a pang in his chest, and damn, what he wouldn't have given to be back there instead of in this goddamned basement.

He tried telling himself they might be back there yet, come nightfall, but the sight of the blood seeping through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder shot that right down. Best case scenario, Tim was spending a couple nights in the hospital.

He refused to think about the worse case.

"Hey, don't worry about me." Tim's voice, low and a little thicker with that drawl than normal, drew Raylan's attention back to him, and damned if the crazy little bastard wasn't still smiling that crooked little smile of his. He started to try to push himself up a little higher against the wall, but Raylan stopped him with a hand on his knee and a look that said, 'hold still, you damn fool' – affectionately, he thought; he was going for affectionately – and Tim settled down again with a look of his own that fell somewhere between exasperated and amused. "Guess I'll just make myself comfortable, then."

"You do that," Raylan said. He gave Tim's leg one last squeeze and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll be back in two shakes."

Tim's head bobbed in something that might've nod. "I'll be here. You go play Marco Polo with your cell reception." And in case the 'dis-missed' hadn't been clear enough, he raised his good hand up and gave him a half-assed sort of shoo-off.

Raylan eyed him just a second longer, before turning off towards the far wall. It was furthest from the rubble from the explosion, and he figured there might still be a chance that not all the wires got knocked loose or something. He didn't know. Last time he'd dealt with any sort of cave-in, cell phones didn't even exist. He figured the closest he got to an exterior wall, to a vent, to anything that connected with the main floor, the better chance he had of picking up a few bars.

"Marco," he said, raising the phone up a little in the air. He didn't much mind the odd looks he got from the other people in the basement; he was cutting up a little for Tim's benefit. He could feel Tim's eyes on him as he walked away, and he was kind of hoping he could keep his mind off things a little longer. Although, it did make him wonder how Tim got to be such a good sniper. Raylan could always feel his eyes on him, this sort of pressure in between his shoulder blades that would always spread into his chest. It wasn't unpleasant. It was the opposite, even; it was getting to where he felt kind of out of sorts without it.

He was definitely relieved to feel it right about then. As long as he could feel his gaze on him, it meant he was awake, it meant he was conscious, and even though he wouldn't venture so far as to say he was good, it at least meant he was okay. All things considered, he wasn't exactly gonna look that particular gift horse in its pearly whites.

He wasn't going to push his luck, either. And while a little game of cellular Marco Polo was all well and good for a laugh, he had a better idea. All the civilians – plus one jumpy rent-a-cop – are crowded over in the corner farthest away from the blown vault, so it's not all that hard to track down the fella with the comb-over. He was chatting with a middle-aged bank attendant with straw blonde hair, pretty casually given the circumstances.

"'Scuse me for cutting in," he said, "but d'you remember where you were standing when you got the call to go through?" He figured why waste time prospecting when someone else had already broken ground, so to speak.

For all the good it did him. Comb-over turned out not to be much in the way of helpful, pointing over to a spot by the wall with a vague, "Somewhere thereabouts," and not a whole hell of a lot else.

Seemed he was gonna be prospecting after all.

Biting back a curse, because damned if the hits didn't just seem to keep coming, Raylan headed over to the wall. He was watching the phone to see if the big old slash through the bars on the phone went away, but he couldn't seem to keep his damn eyes on the phone. It felt like every few seconds he was looking up, eyes flashing over to the pillar across the room where Tim was sitting. He had his gun out, and every time Raylan glanced over at him, he seemed to be fiddling with a different part of it.

Only, maybe fiddling wasn't the right word for it. Fiddling made it sound like it was careless, absent, like he was just tinkering with it. It was almost the polar opposite. Far as Raylan could tell, his attention divided and distanced as it was, he was focusing awful hard on that gun, especially for someone Raylan knew could disassemble a handgun like that and reassemble it with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.

Raylan knotted his brows, even as a single half bar appeared on his phone and he raised it to his ear. There was something didn't sit right about the way Tim was focusing on that gun, like he was trying to disarm a damn bomb.

"Tim?" Raylan called across the room, and even though he got his attention, it didn't settle Raylan's nerves any the way his head snapped up. He frowned deeper. "You alright?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Raylan nearly jumped himself when he heard Art's voice, crackling and muffled, coming through the phone.

"Shit, Art." There went ten years of his life. Between him and Tim, Raylan wasn't rightly sure he'd have any to spare by the end of this. "What the hell's going on up there?"

"What?" And just like that, Art was breaking up. Raylan had a flicker of a hope it was 'cause he'd moved somehow, even though his boots hadn't moved from that spot. He just kind of tipped, and he must've looked like a damn fool, wobbling around like that, but he frankly didn't have it in him to care just then. "Ray—n, you –ere?"

"Damnit, Art, you're breaking up." He felt his chest tighten around something that felt an awful lot like panic, only that wasn't right, because he didn't panic. He'd worked in coal mines; this wasn't the worst cave-in he'd seen, not by a mile.

Thing was, though…Tim hadn't been in any of those. He hadn't been shot.

Raylan gritted his teeth and forced the knot to unclench, because shit, he was a U.S. Marshall, and he was Raylan Givens, and neither of those things came with an inclination towards panicking. He was losing Art. Okay. Not a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. He just had to work with what he had, get as much information to him as he could before the line went dead and trust Art would know what the hell to do with it.

He took a breath. "Alright, Art, here's the deal: this signal ain't gonna hold out. Cave-in's got us blocked in, no exits far as I can tell. I got the civilians by the east corner. Seems sturdiest, least damage from the explosion. We got an officer down by the vaults, gunshot wound to the right shoulder, and I ain't inclined to move him 'less I have to." That knot tightened again, and Raylan had to stop to swallow back the lump in his throat. "It's Tim, Art. Tim's shot." And if his voice sounded hoarse when he said it, well then he would blame that on all the concrete dust.

On the other end of the line, through the increasing static, Raylan thought he could hear Art swearing. It was hard to make out much of anything, though, and Raylan would've had a hell of a time figuring out what he said next, only he was a little too preoccupied.

The sky was falling.

Again.