That was bad.
Very bad.
A proper backup system should have stayed on.
Either the batteries were dead, the transfer failed, or the maintenance that should have been done had been delayed until it became somebody else’s disaster.
I had seen that before.
In hospitals.
In schools.
In county buildings.
In the places where people held fundraisers for innovation while ignoring the ancient wiring behind the walls.
A muffled pounding came from the elevator doors.
“Help!”
A woman’s voice.
Then another voice, younger.
“I can’t breathe.”
The dean grabbed the wall.
“There are three students in there,” she whispered. “One uses a wheelchair.”
I stepped to the elevator and put my ear near the seam.
“This is Elena,” I called. “I’m a utility worker. I’m right outside. Tell me your names.”
There was a pause.
Then the woman answered.
“I’m Priya. I’m a teaching assistant. I have two students with me. One is Jonah. One is Bethany.”
“How long since it stopped?”
“Maybe three minutes.”
“Anyone injured?”
“No. But Jonah is panicking.”
A shaky male voice came through.
“It’s really hot in here.”
“I know,” I said. “Listen to me, Jonah. You are not alone. Put one hand on the wall. Feel that? That wall goes all the way down to where I’m standing. I’m on the other side of it.”
“I don’t like small spaces.”
“Neither do I,” I lied.
Sometimes comfort matters more than accuracy.
“You’re going to breathe with me. Four seconds in. Four seconds out. Priya, can you help him?”
“Yes.”
The tech executive stood beside me, pale and useless in his perfect suit.
To his credit, he knew it.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Hold this light steady on the doors.”
He took the flashlight.
His hands were shaking.
I didn’t make fun of him.
Everybody starts somewhere.
I turned to the dean.
“Where’s your mechanical room?”
“Basement level. But only facilities has access.”
“Then get facilities.”
“I told you, phones are down.”
“Radio?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation told me enough.
“You don’t have one.”
“We used to,” she said quietly. “The system was being upgraded.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I had heard that sentence in a hundred different forms.
Being upgraded.
Being reviewed.
Being optimized.
Being transitioned.
Words people use when something essential has been neglected long enough to become embarrassing.
A security guard ran into the lobby with a battery lantern.
Young kid.
Maybe twenty-three.
His jacket was too big for him, and panic was written all over his face.
“Main security desk is down,” he said. “No phones. Some doors locked automatically. Facilities is trying to get across campus, but there’s a tree down by the service road.”
