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dizziness.
    Closing his eyes, he thought of Paula until the throbbing in his back subsided. She was counting on him. And so were Jeff and David.
    Determined, Michael slipped on the gloves, pulled his handkerchief over his mouth, and dropped to his stomach. The gap between the wing and the crushed bed of the pickup was small, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze underneath.
    Darkness shrouded him as he wiggled his way deeper underneath the rubble. He moved with his arms tucked tightly in front of him, compressing his body as the upside-down bed of the pickup narrowed.
    Just a few more inches , he thought as he got closer.
    The terrifying pop of one of the tires exploding filled the space before he could go any farther. He bit his lip and listened to the air hissing out of the destroyed rubber. It only took a moment for the tire to completely deflate. When the hissing stopped, a new sound replaced it. The sound of groaning metal.
    Michael panicked as he felt the truck bed pushing down on him. The entire left side was being crushed by the wing. Without the support of the back tire he was going to be squashed—suffocated right in front of his boys.
    Then he saw it. There, not a single foot in front of him was the tip of his pack, its straps protruding from the sand, so close he could see the frays in the tattered fabric.
    He wanted desperately to reach out for it, to grab it and escape, but Michael was too terrified to move.
    When the metal finally came to a stop his face was inches away from the ground. He spat into the sand defiantly, grabbed his pack, and squirmed to his right where the other back tire was still holding up the wing. Michael began wiggling backward when he caught sight of something else.
    His rifles.
    He hesitated as the truck let out a terrible creak; the wing pushed the bed down another inch.
    Don’t, Michael. There’s no time. You don’t need the rifles.
    But what if the country is under attack? How would he protect his family?
    Jeff’s distant voice broke over the whipping wind. “Dad! What are you doing?”
    “Wait there! I’ll be back in a second,” Michael yelled. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself before he crawled forward again. He knew he was taking a stupid risk, but he’d seen enough disaster movies to know that he would regret not having the guns later.
    Two breaths later, he was hugging the rifles against his chest and wiggling backward. When he was halfway out he heard the sound of the second tire pop.
    “No!” he yelled. But it was too late. The right side of the pickupbegan to crush him into the sand.
    He panicked again, his feet kicking violently outside the wreckage as the wing pushed the vehicle down against his upper body.
    Before the rubble suffocated him, he felt two small hands wrap around his ankles and tug.
    “No! Get out of here!” he screamed.
    They pulled again. Harder this time, nearly taking off his boots. He tucked the rifles closer to his chest and closed his eyes.
    Another yank and he was free. Without hesitation he rolled onto his back, and looked into his boys’ faces. Even through the dense smoke he could see they were both smiling.
    Michael didn’t know what to say. His kids had just saved his life. Part of him wanted to scold the boys for not staying put, and part of him wanted to punish himself.
    The groaning of the metal behind him shocked him to his feet and he finally found the words he was looking for.
    “Move!”
    A minute later Michael collapsed to the ground. He lay there panting on his back with his kids on both sides.
    “I’m sorry,” Michael finally said. “I shouldn’t have taken that risk.” David nudged up against him.
    “Dad, your leg looks really bad,” the boy said. Michael sat up and jerked his chin toward his bag. “Bring me the first aid kit.” He glanced back down at his mechanical leg and saw the wound was worse than he originally thought. The flesh from his ankle to the bottom of his knee was completely gone. The skin