Tune my heart to sing Thy grace."

I hugged her from behind and this time she didn't resist. My arms wrapped around her and my chest pressed against her back and I didn't let her push me away.

"We're okay," I whispered, my lips brushing her ear. "We're going to be okay."

"But Faith . . ."

"Shh," I said.

"And Mom. And Dad."

"Shh, Hope. Shhhhhhhh."

"What'll she do?"

"Shhhhhhhhhhh."

Her body grew limp until it melted into mine and I was supporting all her weight. It was so still I could hear the beating of my heart, and then hers. I couldn't tell whose beating was whose, or if they'd locked into each other's rhythm. Holding her there, I remembered that first time we met. The way the sunlight outlined the back of her head and neck. Her probing stare.

The look of pain in her eyes.

"We're going to be okay," I whispered, but even as I said it, the air was growing stale, sour, suffocating.

She sang more of her hymn. "'Streams of mercy . . . never ceasing.'"

She was gulping breath like a fish out of water, and I felt the full weight of her sink into me. I lowered her-us-to the ground, until we were huddled there, spooning in the dirt, my body pressed into her as if we'd been soldered together, lying on the damp earth.

"'Call for songs . . . of loudest praise.'"

A moment later she blacked out.

She lay there minutes or hours; I don't know. I never let her go. I dozed some, too-my face touching hers. Her breath was slow and steady and I could feel her chest beneath my forearms, rising and falling.

She woke with a start and struggled to sit up.

"What? Where am-"

"It's okay," I said. "Shh."

"Where are-"

"We're in the tunnel. It's okay."

Her body shifted away from me and even in the dark I could imagine first her panic, then her face registering the reality of our situation. Not just being stuck in this blackened tunnel but the fact I'd been holding her, my hands resting on her belly. Two bodies clutched against each other.

"Guess I passed out," she said apologetically.

"For a bit."

"Was I snoring?"

"Nope."

"Promise?"

"Promise. You drooled some, but you didn't snore."

"What?!"

"Just a little bit. Down your chin."

"No . . ."

"And onto my arm."

"I didn't."

"And my chest."

"I did not."

"You're right. You didn't."

She slapped me hard on the shoulder, and neither of us spoke. Maybe I'm wrong, but I could swear she was smiling. It was too dark to know for sure.

I heard her open her mouth, but she hesitated before speaking. "Thanks for . . ." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

"Don't mention it," I said.

More silence. We were serenaded by a steady drip of water.

"Is anyone digging?" she asked.

"Not that I can hear."

"Do you think they've given up?"

"I don't know. You know them better than I do."

She didn't respond. "I'm so thirsty," she finally said.

I was too. It wasn't just the lack of water, but all the dirt in the air. Every breath tasted of grit and sand.

I placed a hand on the ceiling, slapping at the dirt.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Feeling for dampness. If I can locate that drip . . ."

My fingers flayed against the walls and ceiling until they fell on a root as thick as a rope. I gave it a tug and the dripping increased. I yanked again and even more water came down: a steady trickle off a ceiling panel. It was like I'd found a faucet.

"Here," I said.

In pure darkness, I reached for Hope and brought her forward, positioning her face beneath the mini-waterfall. She drank and drank, and when she'd had enough, her fingers gripped my arm.

"Your turn," she said.

I leaned forward and the water splashed against my nose and chin and eventually I got my mouth under it. It was gritty and bitter and thick with sludge . . . but water never tasted better. I drank until my stomach bulged.

"So what do we do?" Hope asked.

I shrugged. "Keep digging."

"Is there enough air?"

"I'm more worried about the drool."

She slapped me again, and this time I was the one who smiled, but her question was real. And I honestly didn't know the answer.

I found our knives. "Put out your hand," I said.

She did, and I placed the tool in her palm. Even though we were cold and shaking and covered in dirt, I still felt a spark of something between us as our fingers touched. Skin against skin. I wondered if Hope felt it too. We pulled our hands away and began chipping at the earth.

We dug and dug, stopping only to catch our breath or get a drink of water. Although I had the urge to talk to her, to find out all about her, it felt suddenly strange. Awkward, even. Like my holding her had created an odd kind of tension between us.

We worked in silence.

Still, whenever our arms accidentally rubbed against each other, I felt a tingling shock. If our lives hadn't been at stake, I could've stayed there for eternity: alone with Hope, in the dark, as we worked as one.

She suddenly stopped.

"What's this?" she asked.

"What's what?"

"The floor."

I didn't know what she was talking about so I went to pat the ground. It wasn't the sound of hard-packed earth; it was splashing. It was all mud and slime . . . and a good two inches of water.

"What's going on?" I said aloud.

But I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question. A steady stream of rainwater was flowing into the tunnel. It was no longer a single drip but a dozen drips. A hundred.

And it wasn't the lack of oxygen that was going to kill us; it was drowning.

We attacked the mound with a sudden urgency, striking it with the dull knives and flinging the dirt behind us. Blisters on my palm erupted until the knife handle was slick with blood. Our breathing was fast and heavy.

In no time the water reached our waists, turning our world into a pit of mud. My muscles began to tighten, cramp, spasm. I wondered if Hope was feeling the same. Was it my imagination or were we slowing down? Giving up? I needed to do something to revive us.

"Tell me about yourself," I said.

"Huh?"

"Tell me about yourself. I want to hear everything."

"Now?"

"Of course now. What else are we doing?" There was more to it, of course. If this was it for us-our final living moments-I wanted to know who she was, who would go with me to the grave. And I had to distract us. "Like where'd you learn to sing?"

"My mom. She taught us hymns."

"And your dad?"

"A scientist. He did the hunting, chopped the wood, that kind of thing."

"Favorite memory?"

"Huh?"

"What was your favorite memory?"

"Are you sure you really-"

"Just tell me."

We continued to fling thick shards of earth away from the cave-in. The more focus I put on Hope, the less I thought about my bloody hands and the rising water and the stifling air.

"Autumn evenings," she said, panting, her sentences choppy from exertion. "Sitting around the fire. My mom playing piano. Dad telling stories. Faith playing with her dolls." She stopped talking.

"What?" I asked. She didn't respond. "What is it?" I asked again.

"Then the soldiers came," she whispered.

Her tone changed, and it was suddenly dark, sinister, joyless.

And she began digging harder. It was like whatever shift happened in her head caused her to find some extra reserve of strength. She thrust at the earthen mound with a newfound energy. As if the dirt itself was memory and her knife some magic force that would make it go away.

The water was chest level now, nearly to our necks. It was all we could do to keep digging. To keep breathing. We both inched up toward the ceiling-to the last pockets of air.

Our breaths were rapid and shallow, in unison.

"Tell me about the soldiers," I said.

Her digging increased. Once more she was attacking the cave-in with a kind of ferociousness: slicing, slapping, tearing at the dirt and mud, ripping away large rocks.