The searing heat of the sunrise . . . this house is an inferno! We lie helpless in the crawlspace and watch the earth fall away. Eyes break gaze in feigned surrender, but there's no lying in the secret language of hands.
Floating cinder, black as night, the piercing din of the riot outside shade the sanctuary of the still wretch and his loving bride.
Four lines, a direction, a wit to catch to form an escape . . . door to the tunnels beneath . . . trudging through rancid water, rats and fleas will line the way. No reprieve til dusk, we mustn't be spotted. By the signal of the owl we'll make our penultimate flight. Turn from the torches, hasten to the river, down to the crescent, to our sanctuary!