“Aman!” A desperate cry.

“Aman! Where are you?” A desperate cry again, from a different crier.

“I’m over here, under the secretary!” Aman returned.

He very much doubted anyone heard. The secretary was not terribly heavy, but the angles made things worse. He yearned to vomit, to remove the liquor. His new, shiny (mismatched) black arm was pressed firmly into his freshly broken nose and wrapped about his head. On the other side of that arm was a now broken bottle, a few plaques and the remains of a potted fern. And the remains of its pot. Some of the pottery and dirty pressed into his face, smelling of plastic and foam. Beneath that was the blue striped wallpaper, which now was the floor.

The other arm was pinned to his back, the secretary pushing firmly if vaguely downward. Squirming, wiggling proved futile— his legs were free, in a way.

As near as he could tell, they had crashed nose-first into something other than the ground. The landing would have been much harsher if they had hit the ground.