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“We need to get out of here,” Dennis mutters, trying to focus on that task.
It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know where his own front door is anymore. The walls are now floors, the floors are now walls. Trying to push his concussed brain to solve rotation puzzles for the location of a door is like trying to shoot a tipping duck. For all Dennis knows, they’re buried under a hillside’s worth of dirt, and any exit point is blocked by more suffocating darkness.
Trinity forces out a laugh, cold and ironic. “We don’t have our phones, I don’t hear any sirens, and I’m literally pinned to this godforsaken house. We’re not leaving any time soon.”
(In which the Whitsantos household gets caught up in a landslide)
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