Struggling artist Sanjana Sundararaman has a sinkhole in her backyard - and the hot guy who can fix it is her middle school math nemesis.

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I crawl forwards to where I can see around the blind curve of the tunnel.

There he is, shading his eyes against the light from my headlamp. His spare headlamp.

Damn it.

I shut mine off, too, and we are drenched in a darkness more black than anything I've ever experienced before.

I'm frozen.

It envelopes me.

It feels like I'm breathing it in, like all those coal miners in Eastern Kentucky and their Black Lung Disease.

It's soaking into my pores.

It's...

"Sanjana. You can turn your lamp back on." Kyle's voice is calm, even, like the total blackness hasn't bothered him one bit.

"I'll b-b-b-blind you," I manage to get past a tongue that seems thicker than it was a minute ago.

"I'll be fine. I'll shade my eyes while you turn around."

I want to object and say that whatever he can handle, I can handle.

But it isn't true.

I'm petrified.