Fifteen minutes and another seven percent of battery later, just as I'm contemplating whether it's worth opening another snack, a sound breaks the silence. At first, it's faint—a scraping, grinding noise that makes me sit up straighter. Then, clearer now, a voice.
"Hello? Is anyone in there?"
The voice is male, deep and authoritative. Relief floods through me.
"Yes!" I call back, scrambling to my feet. "I'm here! I'm stuck!"
"Ma'am, this is the fire department. We're here to get you out. Are you alright?"
I guess the emergency call button worked after all.
"I'm fine," I reply, pressing closer to the elevator doors. "Just ready to get out of here."
"Understood, ma'am. We're working on it now. It might take a few minutes, but we'll have you out soon. Can you tell me your name?"
"Nicole," I say, then hesitate. Should I give my full name? But he's a firefighter, right? It's probably fine. "Nicole d'Armand."
