Eleanor hated tunnels. She hated the darkness and the putrid smell and the close moisture and the feel of slime against her forearms and face. She was sure it was in her hair, too.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. More than everything else, she hated the arm-over-arm way they had to drag themselves along because these maintenance tunnels weren’t even big enough to crawl through.

She wouldn’t blame Sam if he despised her for getting him into this, but he didn’t seem to be as distressed by their creep to the leaky pipes as she was.

In fact, he was whistling.

Surely, he wasn’t enjoying this. Could anybody enjoy this?

“Almost there,” Sam said. Then he resumed whistling.

“Thank goodness.”

They wriggled around one last...

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