Chapter 3 - Three Inches of Air
Up on the forty-first floor, Ethan Harrington was running out of time.
His skin had turned an alarming, grayish-blue hue. His lips were chapped and blue-tinged, parted in a silent, agonizing scream for oxygen that his collapsed lungs simply could not deliver. His right hand remained outstretched, frozen in a desperate claw toward the edge of the mahogany desk where the small, blue plastic cylinder sat mockingly out of reach.
He could feel his heart hammering wildly against his ribs, slowing down with every passing second, preparing for its final, fatal stop.
Clack.
The sound was so faint that Ethan nearly missed it amid the roaring static in his ears. It wasn't the sound of the heavy elevator doors opening. It was something much lighter. Much softer.
Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps. Tiny, tentative footsteps padding across the expensive Persian rug of the executive foyer.
Ethan tried to turn his head, but his neck muscles refused to cooperate. His vision was reduced to a narrow, flickering tunnel of light. Through the blur of tears and oxygen deprivation, a small shadow detached itself from the doorway of the private office.
A pair of bright pink sneakers with crooked Velcro straps stepped into his field of vision.
Lily Delgado stopped dead in her tracks.
She had expected the cloud building to be full of busy mice in grey suits, or perhaps a nice lady who gave out strawberry candies like the receptionist downstairs. Instead, she found a giant, terrifying room dominated by towering glass walls and a massive man lying crumpled on the floor like a broken toy, making horrible, rattling noises.
For a three-year-old, it was a terrifying sight. Most children would have screamed, turned around, and bolted back into the elevator.
Instead, Lily remembered her mother’s strict rule about the cloud building: You cannot make a mess. You must be good.
And she remembered something else. Her mother’s voice from a hundred bedtime stories: When someone is hurting, you don't run away. You help them find their smile.
Lily clutched Mr. Buttons tightly against her chest with one arm, her serious brown eyes locking onto Ethan’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.
“Are you playing a game?” Lily asked softly, her voice echoing in the vast, silent room.
Ethan couldn't answer. He could only let out a pathetic, whistling groan, his fingers twitching helplessly toward the desk.
Lily followed the direction of his shaking hand. Her gaze traveled up the polished mahogany leg of the desk, past the stack of legal documents, and landed squarely on the small blue cylinder resting precariously on the very edge.
“The blue thing,” Lily observed aloud.
She walked over to the desk. It loomed above her like a massive wooden cliff. But Lily was resourceful. Next to the desk sat a heavy, leather-upholstered guest stool—the very stool where visiting corporate executives sat when Ethan was about to crush them in negotiations.
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With a grunt of pure toddler determination, Lily grabbed the edge of the heavy leather stool and dragged it across the plush carpet with a muffled shhh-schrit sound. She positioned it directly against the side of the mahogany desk.
Then, using a technique she usually reserved for climbing up to the cookie jar at home, she hoisted her right foot onto the crossbar, grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands, and hauled herself up.
