The beam of his flashlight sliced through the dark, bouncing off the damp stone walls.

Nathan grabbed my wrist and pulled me backward into the narrow crawlspace behind the old coal chute.

The smell of coal dust and wet earth filled my nose.

I pressed my back against the cold stone, holding the scrap of paper tight in my fist.

The guard’s boots slowly descended the stairs, one creaking step at a time.

“I know I heard a phone,” the guard muttered.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, his light sweeping the cellar floor.

The bright beam passed over the edge of my shoe, missing it by inches.

Nathan reached down, his fingers finding a heavy, rusted iron hinge lying on the floor.

He tossed it into the far corner of the cellar.

The metal clattered loudly against a pile of old paint cans.

“Over there,” the guard whispered to someone above.

He hurried toward the sound, his back turned to us.

Nathan yanked my arm, pointing to the low wooden hatch at the back of the coal chute.