The stimulant comedown was as brutal as Alice feared, muscles shaking with fatigue, throat slick with a sour aftertaste. She ignored the pain and pushed on through the tunnels, looking for a way up. It was cold and dark, the round steel walls dimly lit by red emergency packs epoxied to the ceiling. She was running on automatic, with plans that amounted to nothing more than to get higher, try to find Mike, call in a Hopper. Outside, things had seemed simpler; inside her claustrophobia returned, fueled by deadening exhaustion. The weight of the Bridge was a tactile presence, oil and metal in her mouth. The urge to succumb to blind panic, run, get out, pushed against her like an invisible hand. Only her bloody-minded stubbornness kept her upright and moving.