Thank you for your positive and constructive reviews.

I edited chapter 17 to remove one term that I understand caused offence as racist. If you felt offence, I apologise sincerely.

I say, yet again [sigh], this is set in the 1990s. Cultural references thus reflect that. Outdated? Well...yeah? It was 30 years ago…

Chapter 18.

She asks me if I'm scared.

Hell yes. I don't want to die. Not yet. I have too much to do, too much I still want to accomplish and see and experience. A little shamefully, I can admit to myself, I am even more scared of being badly injured. I am a physical man. I am a man of action. I work out every day, running, lifting, sparring with other men. One of our favourite things to do at Rangeman is sparring on the mats in practice and training. I favour a mix of Israeli Krav Maga and Jujutsu. The thrill of facing an opponent and outwitting and outmanoeuvring them is enormous. I would struggle mightily with being confined to a wheelchair or being unable to run, to move. Is that wrong? Is that prejudice? I'm not sure, but it is the way I feel.

So, hell yes, I'm scared.

But is that what she really wants to hear? I don't know. In the end, I decide on compromise; I admit I'm scared, but try to reassure her that we'll get out of this. I slip into my gang-slang mode to tease her a little, try to make her laugh. It's actually something that comes easily to me; in the gangs you don't sound highbrow. That would be dangerous. But I do it now just to lighten the mood. She nearly floors me when she matches me with silly slang of her own, and I laugh with her. It's very funny because it sounds so ridiculous from her, and it's very cliche slang. But it works to break the tension a little and ease our churning thoughts.

The inner doors open, and Rodriguez and his team are already set to help us out. I'm almost amused at seeing them sitting atop each other's shoulders. Not that it's a stupid idea, just that they look like they're about to have a chicken fight, outside the water. They have come up with a good process though, and I can see they have picked the biggest and most built to take my weight as we climb out. That's good thinking.

Then Rodriguez tells me to go first. My head is shaking the moment he starts to say it. Hell NO! Steph gets out of here first. Period. There's no way I'm leaving her behind in this elevator, shivering and scared and working on her own. Nothing Rodriguez can say will convince me.

But Steph can. I am shocked when she turns my face and tells me to go. She will be ok; she will come right behind me. I think the only thing that can sway me is that she says it. And I realise that arguing about it will only place us both in more danger, so when Rodriguez tells me they now have more people holding the brake, I decide to go with it. But I'm not happy about it.

Everything seems to go smoothly to my immense relief. Matthews carries my weight well enough to set me down and allows me to help him steady Steph as she follows me out. I am slightly bemused to note that she has brought her bag with her. Trust a Jersey girl to prioritise her purse. Immediately I take Steph into my arms to hold her close for long minutes. I am aware of the many eyes on us, not just the fire officers, but the crowd behind the barriers. I have no doubt there are cameras on us as well, and I turn subtly to minimise their ability to see my face. Steph blushes slightly as she sees all the eyes on us, and the almost smirking expressions of the fire officers. I am glad they don't know our back stories. Has it really only been a few hours that I have known this woman? It's hard to reconcile how quickly I have become attached.

To my surprise, and not totally to my pleasure, Steph then moves forward to hug Rodriguez and thank him profusely. But his reaction is amusing. I quickly pull her back to my side. Not that I am jealous. Of course not. I manage to add my thanks to the crew and also Aldridge. This acknowledgement seems to bring them back to their situation. We may be out of the elevator car, but the others above are still holding the brake and still waiting for the crew to finish dealing with the situation.

Matthews takes us aside to show us to some food and water and the restrooms. Steph and I sit on the sofa with the cushions remaining and simultaneously tilt our heads back in relief. I know we are both revelling in the feeling of being safe on solid ground once more. After a minute, I reach forward to grab two of the water bottles, handing one off to Steph and gulping down mine. I see Steph taking some big swallows as well. I pick up two of the packets of sandwiches. I note they are ham and cheese on white bread, not really my preference. Probably got some toxic margarine spread on them. But I am hungry enough, and relieved enough to eat it, and I am grateful at the consideration from whoever had the forethought to provide them. I hand one packet off to Steph and unwrap mine.

As we eat, we watch the fire crew working. They have two-way radio communication with those above the elevator car, and I hear a few phrases that indicate they are trying to stabilise the car and secure the brake to stop the car falling. Some of the officers take the stairs up, apparently to assist, leaving Rodriguez and Matthews standing at the open doors, peering upward.

Steph stands, and I glance at her, but she waves to indicate she is going to use the restroom. I nod and watch her walk toward it, before moving my attention back to the crew. Rodriguez is still talking on the two-way, but quietly enough I cannot hear. However, his nods and gestures seem to indicate things are going as expected. He moves a pace back from the elevators, Matthews accompanying him, and they wait, slightly tense. I assume they are waiting to see if the fix is going to work on the brake. Apparently, it holds, and there is more nodding and affirmations on the radio. I wonder idly if they will be able to retrieve our jackets. Probably not yet. No problem, we can leave our addresses and they can get them to us when everything is secure and stabilised. No doubt Aldridge won't want to have anyone go back into the car until he is sure it won't fall.

Rodriguez listens to his radio, and I see him and Matthews step forward. For some reason, presumably on Aldridge's orders, they seem to want to close the inner doors again. Matthews starts to pull the inner doors wider, while Rodriguez takes the first bracing plank of wood out of the doors. I see Matthews muscles strain, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him. Those doors are hard to hold open. Rodriguez sets the plank aside and steps forward to grab the second one.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steph come out of the restroom. She is parallel to the elevators, on the right-hand side, and she glances naturally over to check the action, while walking back towards me.

Everything seems to happen at once, while seeming also to move at half speed.

Rodriguez pulls out the second wood plank and moves to put it aside with the first.

Matthews struggles to hold the doors open alone, and they start to slip.

Rodriguez turns back to help Matthews, reaching his hands into the gap between the doors.

Matthews loses his grip, and the doors start to slam shut. Rodriguez' hands are still between them.

Instinctively, I rise and begin running towards the elevators to help.

Instinctively, I see Steph run toward the elevator to help too.

The doors slam shut.

Rodriguez scream of pain and shock is agonised. His hands are trapped between the doors. Steph and I reach the elevator almost simultaneously. Matthews and I move immediately to open the doors again, and quickly create a gap, pulling sharply on either side. Steph pulls Rodriguez back away from the doors, and stumbling and bent over, helps him sit on the floor, cradling his mangled hands to his chest and moaning loudly. We let go of the doors again, moving back quickly.

Matthews immediately picks up the two-way and begins barking a report to the captain, while I move to help Steph with Rodriguez. There's not much we can do. He needs a hospital and an orthopaedic surgeon, stat. His eyes are beginning to cobweb in shock and pain, and I reach and grasp his chin gently. "Stay with us, Rodriguez," I urge. "Focus on my face. Take deep breaths. Match your breathing to mine." I am not sure if I am getting through at first, but slowly his focus comes back, and I see him breathing through the pain with me. I keep my breathing slow and deep and stare into his eyes, willing him to stay conscious and keep breathing with me.

Steph is rubbing ineffectually on his back and murmuring desperately, "You'll be ok. You'll be ok."

A burst of noise from the stairwell, and we are suddenly surrounded by three more of the fire crew, including the captain. Matthews is calling an ambulance for an 'officer down', and I let out a small breath of relief when he indicates that an ambulance is on the way.

The captain and crew step forward to take control, and Steph and I move back away, my arm sliding around her waist to pull her to me. It's already a natural gesture. We start to move further back, to give everyone room, but I feel a gentle hand on my arm. Matthews steps toward me and says quietly, "Thanks. To you both. Thanks for your help." It is a simple and sincere gesture, but I see the anguish and regret clear on his face. I know the guilt that will eat at this man. Guilt that he let go. Guilt that he feels responsible. Guilt that one of his brothers was injured on his watch.

But I also know how difficult those doors were to open, to hold open, by myself. Matthews is not really at fault. Actually, Rodriguez was in charge, and should have ensured that Matthews had help with the doors. So, I say, quietly but authoritatively, "Those doors are incredibly hard to open. It's not your fault. It needed three people to open them to get the wedges in and out. Don't blame yourself."

Even as I say it, I know it will not be enough. I'm not even sure if he hears me. His mind is clearly clouded with the guilt and shame flooding him. I just hope he gets the help he needs to work through this and accept it. I know that the fire department will have counsellors to get him the help he needs. I just hope he takes it.

Still, Rodriguez's future is uncertain. His hands look badly damaged, they are turning dark purple and starting to swell, as blood floods into the limbs. And his eyes are even more glazed now in pain, and his consciousness is clearly slipping. Suddenly we hear commotion behind us. We all turn, as we hear shouts of, "Move aside. Coming through." Three paramedics come through the lobby doors, pushing a mobile stretcher, and make a beeline towards the knot of fire officers and us. Thank goodness.

I do move Steph and I back now, quietly leading her over to the sofa where we sat again. This time, Steph leans against me, hugging herself to me, and I see a couple of silent tears leaking from her eyes and sliding down her face in grief and exhaustion. It's only my self-control and training that stops me from joining her.

This has been a hell of a day.

Please forgive my little rant. Positive reviews and constructive feedback are most welcome.

With the last chapter, I also received a couple of 'guest reviews' that were flames. Not really bad or super-abusive, but certainly not phrased as constructive criticism. Constructive criticism uses non-inflammatory and non-insulting language and highlights a mistake, flaw, or area for improvement, calmly and objectively. It does not accuse the writer of being or doing awful things.

Flamers, on the other hand, are trying to insult the writer, make them feel bad and make them second-guess their writing and creativity. They tell you your work is not worth reading. Guess what? It works! You made me feel bad and stunted my desire to write. I hope that makes you happy.

BTW – I moderate my guest reviews and I don't allow flamer reviews through. I refuse to give you the space and venue to be nasty publicly. Especially when you do it anonymously. At least have the guts to register and own your opinions.

Fanfic writers are hobbyists. We receive no monetary or other benefit for writing, other than the innate pleasure of it. If payment exists, it is the positive feedback and satisfaction of knowing people are reading. I wish flamers would understand how impactful and demotivating their words can be. If you want everyone to stop writing and stop trying, keep it up!

To the loyal, generous, thoughtful, and kind readers and reviewers out there, please know I appreciate your reviews and will continue to try and write and finish this story.

Robyn