"I'm sorry," Jill Trelawney was crying, running up the slope toward him. "I'm so terribly sorry. I tired to warn you. I simply didn't realize—are you hurt?"
Her face, Dowland thought, was probably no whiter than his own. The canopy had caved in around him, and a jagged chunk of engine was nestling in the passenger seat to his right. As he tried to stand up, a section of the plastic floorboard collapsed; his foot followed it through and struck solid ground. He worked himself out of the seat. The grid-car creaked tiredly and settled another six inches. Dowland shoved a piece of canopy aside and found he could straighten out.
He cleared his throat. "I don't think I'm hurt. Anyway, not much."
"Your face—it's bleeding!"
Dowland probed at a cut lip with his tongue and winced. "Didn't notice it happen ... a lot of stuff flying around there for a moment. Now, just what's going on?"
The girl swallowed nervously, staring at him. "The power's off."
"That I noticed." Something occurred to Dowland. "That's why you couldn't call me on the communicator."
"Yes. I...."
"How long has it been off here?"
"Since this morning."