The pungent smell of kerosene lanterns is nauseating and nearly causes Dawn to pass out again. She is saved by a gasmask being put over her face, the inside dotted with an aromatic oil to help block the stench. Looking through the yellow-tinted lenses, she can see that they are in a dome-shaped cavern. None of the locals are wearing masks thanks to years of living within the stifling conditions. There is a sickly tint to their skin and their pupils are barely visible, which makes their eyes appear white at first glance. Tents have been arranged in square groupings with fencing around each one to create front and backyards. Communal buildings are motorhomes that have had their wheels removed since there is nowhere to go underground. Numbers are on cardboard flags that stick out of the top of the structures, all of them written in gold and fringed with glitter. Hearing whispers, Dawn looks up to see that there are ropes leading to a network of walkways near the ceiling. She can barely make out the distant forms standing on the suspended bridges, their gloved hands pressed against the densely packed dirt.