But the storm looked weaker. Or was it her imagination?
She groped for the zipper. Foul air would kill her quicker than sand. She couldn't find it.
Hell with the zipper! She pulled her little mending kit out of her pocket and slashed the bag with the scissors.
The storm sounded louder now, with the bag gone. The sand blew under her eyelids. Ripped her face. Tore a burning circle around each ankle.
Annie put her face in her hands, breathing through her nose and the sock.
She held herself stiffly. She didn't want to cough.
The whole world was a blind, gritty pain. There was no end to think of. Only pain.
A grayness.
A blackness.
Finally, a voice. Bradman.