In the Autumn issue of Contrary:
There’s barely room to breathe. Her knees pressed to the rear of the machine, chest pressed to her knees, back to the wall. Grime and furred dust coats the floor beneath her, sticky on the skin. Clumping to her hands as she pushes further into the corner. Her heartbeat skitters along her damp and gritty palms. She tilts her head upward toward the open air. She can’t hear anyone moving now.