Mean Vick and Loma Prieta, part 2

Creaks belch from the walls as if the building ate something that did’t agree with it. And though we’re standing in what we’ve all read and heard is the safest place during an earthquake –a doorframe – that comfort is cold as a broker’s heart. We could fall. The floor could melt right out from under us we’d tumble through space, floor by floor, until we landed in a pile on top of the desks and credenzas and coffee cups of the previous 17 floors, and it’s gonna hurt. I’m struggling to plan a way in which to fall so it won’t hurt when I land. So far the plan's not coming together.
“It’ll hurt when we fall.” I inform Vick.
“I know.” She’s clutching Mosby’s waist, who’s doing a sort of shoulder hug with Tom the married guy, because even in the throes of a natural disaster that’s messing with the intestines of steel buildings, God knows you don’t grab the waist of the nearest warm body for solace. Word would leak out, and next thing you know they’d be calling you “Kitten” at the gym. “You know what’s worse, though?,” she aksed.
Brand me a loon—something about the half-light and creaking girders hinders my thought process. “I can’t fathom.”