Jill rested the bucket on the stair before her and gasped for breath.  These things were getting seriously heavy, and Mom wasn’t done yet.  She coughed.  The dust in the basement seemed to be sticking to her lungs.

She lifted the handle again and braced herself for the load.

The handle cracked. 

Her hand slipped. 

The bucket tilted, spilled.  The water rushed down the steps.

“Damn!”  Jill tugged at the bucket, trying to right it.  Her foot slipped.  She slid, bumping down the stairs.

Her hands smacked into the wet cement, her bottom bruised.  Her throat felt tight, her lungs sucking for air.  She shook her head to get the hair out of her face and fumbled to push it back.  Her hand was shaking.

She couldn’t breath.  Couldn’t — get air. 

The walls closed in around her.  Her chest worked faster, but no air seemed to get in.  Tears started down her cheeks.

“Mom!”  The sound was too weak.  “Mom!”

Through the closing darkness she could see the outline of her mother running toward her.  She seemed to be moving away, though, and Jill knew only the drowning need for air.