"What the hell is that?"

Jake Osworth stared at the screen on his computer, seismic waves stirring from beneath the earth's crust. Each wave pulsed large and larger, pressure building like rippling in the waves. As far as he could tell it was coming from off the coast of California, somewhere between San Francisco and Los Angeles. And it was growing.

"Oh, my God," Angie breathed next to him. She obviously recognized the signs, too, as the other leading seismologist on this expedition. They weren't expecting to find anything, but this quake was pulsing and growing. Any second now it would pass the mark into physical chaos.

"We have to warn them," Jake said, lunging for the phone. Just as his fingers touched it, the ground began to shake.

He fell to the floor and looked up at Angie. Her eyes said everything.

It was way too late.

…

Logan was wincing before he even opened his eyes. He had a headache the size of Mt. Everest. A pitiful groan escaped his lips as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees, holding the back of his head and willing for it to stop throbbing. What had hit him? He could feel dried blood sticking to his hair, and that thought alarmed him. So did the smell, like metallic water—telling him that either he had bled more than he thought he did, or—

"Carlos," he realized, opening his eyes fully. His vision went haywire, blacking out around the edges even though he sat frozen, knowing he was still conscious. Eventually the darkness faded, leaving his reeling with a massive headache. He wanted to suddenly lie on the floor and just slip into blissful sleep. In fact, he was about to do just that when he heard a tiny noise off to his right.

"Carlos?" Logan held his head and pushed himself into a sitting position, turning to look at his friend. Through his blurred vision he could see the Latino boy slumped against the wall of the elevator they were in, eyes closed but teeth grit in pain.

Right. Logan remembered, slightly. He remembered falling in the elevator and something smashing into the back of his head. But he didn't remember much else.

First things first. Logan started to stand and fell back as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He understood now—he had a concussion. He didn't know how bad, though. Sleep was now out of the question.

How bad was Carlos? Logan decided to keep to crawling on his hands and knees and crossed the short distance to his friend.

"Carlos," he said softly, although it came out more like a slur. Clearing his throat he called again, "Carlos." He reached out to shake his friend's shoulder.

As soon as Logan's hand came into contact with Carlos' shoulder, the Latino boy's back arched sharply as a hoarse scream of pain echoed into the small compartment. Logan jerked away as if he'd been burned, terrified of hurting him as he watched tears prickle in the corners of Carlos' tightly squeezed eyes. Then the moment was over and Carlos slumped back again, limp and unconscious.

Logan took a shaky breath. He felt horrible for not seeing before, even in the dim light, how Carlos' shoulder jutted out from its socket. It was dislocated. Logan knew how to pop it back in, but he couldn't shake the scream he'd let out when he touched the shoulder. It seemed to echo in his brain. He didn't want to go anywhere near his shoulder again.

"Sorry, buddy," he whispered. Carlos didn't answer. Logan really didn't want him to. He crawled back to Carlos and eased one hand on his back and the other on his shoulder.

Carlos whimpered slightly even at the feather-light touch Logan was giving him. Logan took a deep breath and popped it back in.

This time when Carlos screamed in pain, his eyes flew wide open and he threw his head back so hard he smacked it against the wall—which, Logan just now noticed, was missing a railing.

"God," Carlos whimpered as a hand came to clutch at his shoulder. "Oh, ow, owie, man, that hurt."

"I'm sorry," Logan apologized. "I'm sorry. Your shoulder was dislocated, I had to fix it. I'm sorry."

Carlos seemed to register that it was Logan's voice talking, and his wide eyes fixed on him. "Logan!" he cried, joyous. Before Logan could react, he was enveloped in a staggering hug.

"I see I did it right, then," Logan said dryly, nodding at Carlos' shoulder.

"Yep," Carlos said, forgetting how bleak their situation was. "It feels much better now. I can probably lift weights with this thing." He flexed whatever nonexistent muscles he had, pulling a "macho" face.

Logan rolled his eyes and then winced at how much that action hurt. "Yeah, well, I don't advise using it for any strenuous activity. I'm not a professional doctor and I don't know if I did it right, so we're going to have to wait until you can go to the hospital."

At his words, Carlos seemed to realized that they weren't in the hospital. His face fell, recognizing the tiny elevator, their new prison.

"You okay?" Logan asked warily.

Carlos' breathing had sped up. He sounded like he was having a panic attack. But that was psychological—way out of Logan's league. "Dude, calm down," he grunted, trying to reach for Carlos' wrist as the Latino boy stood.

"No," Carlos said, hugging himself tightly. He sank to the floor in the corner opposite of Logan, rubbing his arms and drawing his knees to his chest. "It's so small in here," he whimpered. "Logie, I can't move."

"Yes you can," Logan said calmly.

Carlos didn't seem to hear him. His eyes darted from one wall to the next and his breathing got worse. Logan started to worry, recognizing the raw discomfort in Carlos' eyes. He was claustrophobic. It made sense, too—Carlos had so much energy that he was constantly moving, tapping, dancing, running, jumping. Staying still was hard for him. Being forced to stay still, in a space as small as an elevator, must be killing him.

Logan had no idea how to treat this.

"Logan," Carlos called, drawing his attention back to him. His eyes were screwed shut, but he was facing in Logan's direction.

"Yeah?"

"Can we run out of air in here?" As if to emphasize his point, Carlos' ragged breathing grew louder.

Logan shook his head, and then remembered that his friend couldn't see him with his eyes closed like that. "No," he said. "There are ventilation shafts in elevators that allow air to keep circulating in. We could be in here for days and we won't suffocate."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Carlos' eyes popped open and said, "We're going to be in here for days?"

"No, that's not what—"

"What about James and Kendall?" Carlos demanded. "They'll be wondering where we are! And we can't call for help because the phone line's cut and I don't have a cell phone because I was going in the pool and Kendall and Katie were up in their apartment doing something or whatever and we're in here trapped in an elevator!"

"Carlos!" Logan shouted. The rise of volume cost him harder pounding in his head, but he managed to catch the Latino boy's attention. "We'll be fine," he insisted. "I'm sure the others are fine, too. Just stay here and try to breathe normally, alright?"

The expression on Carlos' face said plainly that he hated being in the elevator. Logan doubted that he would ever go into an elevator again after they got out of this.

Silence reigned in the elevator as Carlos' breathing slowly calmed down. His eyes were still closed, like he was imagining himself somewhere else. But he wasn't freaking out as much.

Logan, on the other hand, felt like throwing up. The room spun, even as he sat in this stable position. Was the elevator rocking? Why did it feel like it was?

"Logie?"

He looked up to see Carlos staring at him. He looked concerned. "You okay?"

"Concussion," Logan managed to grind out. "I'll be fine."

Guilt flashed over the Latino boy's face, although Logan couldn't imagine why. Clearing his throat, he said, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Carlos said, shrugging out of habit. He winced when he jolted his shoulder, sealing Logan's conviction that he definitely wasn't fine.

"You hit your head," he noted as he spotted the blood on Carlos' brow. That must've been where the rest of the blood came from.

Carlos turned his face away childishly, like he could deny it. But the dim glow of the elevator's lights caught the red in his dark hair. Logan narrowed his eyes. "Concussion?"

"I don't think so," Carlos said immediately. He would know, too. Despite how much he wore his helmet, Carlos had the most concussions out of the four of them. The question was whether he'd admit he had one now to Logan.

Knowing Carlos, he was probably lying.

Logan frowned at him, wishing there was something he could do. But there was no way to treat a concussion that he had here in the elevator. All he could do was make sure Carlos didn't fall asleep—and make sure he didn't sleep, either.

The silence stretched, obviously making Carlos uncomfortable. He started to breathe heavier again, eyes darting between the walls before squeezing shut. Logan felt helpless to save Carlos from the discomfort of not being able to move around like he wanted to. Logan, personally, didn't have any qualms about enclosed spaces. But he had to admit, he wanted out of here just as much as Carlos did. If only to find out if his friends were safe.

As if reading his mind, Carlos whispered, "What do you think happened to the others?"

Logan racked his brain for a response that wouldn't scare his friend, but nothing came. The silence was enough.

He had no idea.