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When I was about four, Irsquo;d gotten partially stuck inside a Murphy bed in our old apartment on Seventh Avenue, which sounds a humorous predicament but wasnrsquo;t really; I think I would have suffocated if Alameda, our housekeeper back then, hadnrsquo;t heard my muffled cries pulled me out. Trying to manoeuvre in that airless space was somewhat the same, only worse: with glass, hot metal, the stink of burnt clothes, an occasional soft something pressing in on me that I didnrsquo;t want to think about. Debris was pattering down on me heavily from above; my throat was filling with dust I was coughing hard starting to panic when I realised I could see, just barely, the rough texture of the broken bricks that surrounded me. Light ndash; the faintest gleam imaginable ndash; crept in subtly from the left, about six inches from floor level.