They copied me.

I counted quietly.

In.

Out.

Again.

My hands moved along the inside of the coffin, searching for anything useful.

Fabric.

Wood.

Flowers near our feet.

Nothing.

Then I felt something hard against my hip.

At first, I assumed it was part of my clothing.

I reached into my jacket pocket.

My fingers closed around a rectangle.

I stopped breathing.

My phone.

For one second I simply held it.

Then I pressed the side button.

The screen lit the coffin.

Ben cried out.

Sam covered his eyes.

The pale light showed me their faces.

They looked awful.

Their skin was gray, their lips dry, their hair flattened against the padding.

But they were looking at me.

Alive.

I looked at the screen.

Seventeen percent battery.

No service.

Then one bar appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

“Mom?”

“I’m calling 911.”

My fingers shook so badly that I entered the wrong numbers the first time.

I tried again.

The call failed.

“Again,” Ben said.

I did.

Nothing.

I raised the phone as high as the coffin allowed.

One bar.

I called again.

This time I heard ringing.

A voice answered.

“911. What’s the address of your emergency?”

I started crying.

Not loudly.

I just couldn’t stop the tears.

“Please don’t hang up.”

“Ma’am, I won’t. Tell me where you are.”

I looked at my sons.

“I don’t know exactly.”

There was a pause.

“Are you in a vehicle?”

“No.”

I forced myself to say it.

“I’m in a coffin.”

Another pause.

“Ma’am?”

“My name is Jennifer Smith. My sons are Ben and Sam Smith. We were declared dead. There was a funeral. I think we’ve been buried.”

The dispatcher didn’t argue.

Her voice became very precise.

“Jennifer, can you tell me the name of the cemetery?”

I couldn’t.

My funeral arrangements hadn’t existed the last time I was conscious.

Ben suddenly whispered beside me.

“Grandpa.”

“What?”

“Grandpa’s cemetery.”

My father had died six years earlier.

Mom had bought a family plot near his grave.

I remembered the name.

I told the dispatcher.

She asked me to stay on the line.

Then she said something I will never forget.

“Jennifer, emergency crews are being sent there now.”

Sam started crying.

I put the phone on speaker and lowered the brightness.

“Are they coming?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

I didn’t know.

The dispatcher kept talking to us.

She asked questions to keep me alert.

Our names.

Our ages.

What we remembered.

Whether we could breathe.

I answered slowly.

My phone dropped to twelve percent.

Then nine.

The signal disappeared twice.

Each time the call stayed connected.

At some point, we heard something.

A dull vibration.

Ben grabbed my arm.

“Mom.”

I listened.

Nothing.

Then again.

Thud.

Far above us.

I pressed my palm against the lid.

“We’re here!”

The dispatcher told me not to shout continuously.

Save air.

Save energy.

So we waited.

The sounds grew louder.

Metal striking earth.

Machines.

Voices I couldn’t make out.

Sam held my left hand.

Ben held my right.

Then something scraped across the top of the coffin.

All three of us screamed.

A voice came faintly through the wood.

“Jennifer Smith?”

I hit the lid once.

“YES!”

The boys started crying.

I did too.

When the Lid Opened

I don’t know how long it took them to get us out.

It felt like hours.

Later they told me it was much faster.

When the coffin finally moved, I could feel us being lifted.

Then came voices.

Commands.

Metal tools.

And suddenly the lid opened.

Daylight poured in.

I couldn’t look at it.

Someone leaned over me.

“Jennifer, don’t try to stand.”

Hands reached inside.

Ben was taken first.

Then Sam.

I kept asking the same question.

“Are they breathing?”

A paramedic answered.

“Yes.”

I grabbed his sleeve.

“Both?”

“Both.”

Only then did I let them lift me out.

The cemetery was full of firefighters, police officers and paramedics.

Fresh dirt surrounded the grave.

I saw my father’s headstone a few yards away.

Then I saw two stretchers.

Ben was on one.

Sam was on the other.

Oxygen masks covered their faces.

But their eyes were open.

Ben raised one hand toward me.

I raised mine back.

That was enough.

At the hospital, we were placed in separate rooms.

Doctors came and went constantly.

Blood was drawn.

Machines were attached.

Questions repeated.

One physician asked me whether we had taken any unusual medication.

“No.”

“Any supplements?”

“No.”

“Anything different at the party?”

I thought about it.

“Cake.”

He looked at me.

“All three of you ate it?”

“Yes. So did other people.”

He wrote something down.

Hours later, another doctor came into my room.

He closed the door behind him.

A detective was with him.

That was the moment I knew this wasn’t simply a medical mistake.

The doctor pulled a chair closer.

“Jennifer, we received preliminary toxicology results.”

I stared at him.

“What did you find?”

He glanced at the detective.

“A substance that should not have been in your system.”

I looked toward the wall separating me from the room where one of my sons was being treated.

“What about Ben and Sam?”

The doctor nodded slowly.

“We found it in all three of you.”

My mouth went dry.

“What does it do?”

“Among other things, it can suppress normal body functions to dangerously low levels.”

The detective spoke next.

“Low enough that under unusual circumstances, someone could appear to have no detectable signs of life.”

I looked down at my hospital bracelet.

My name was printed correctly.

Jennifer Smith.

Alive.

“Are you saying someone gave this to us?”

Neither man answered immediately.

That silence told me enough.

The detective opened his notebook.

“Mrs. Smith, we’re going to need you to walk us through everything you remember about the birthday party.”

I closed my eyes.

Twelve candles.

Blue frosting.

Ben dropping his plate.

Sam reaching for the chair.

My mother’s hands covering her mouth.

Mike kneeling on the floor.