What was that? Reshma wonders. She strains to hear.
"Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar."
There it is again, the mellifluous tones of the Muslim call to prayer.
And then ... voices.
She hears voices. Many voices.
"Where's the sound coming from? Where's the sound coming from?" she keeps asking herself.
With a new urgency, she bangs on the walls of mangled metal and cement around her.
Then she sees a sliver of light.
"Bachao! Bachao!" she calls out. Save me! Save me!
But no one hears her.
She takes another rod. With all her might, she jams it through an opening above her.
"Allah," she keeps saying. "Allah, save me."
It wasn't lost on Lt. Col. Moazzem Hossain that the mood at the disaster site was changing.
Determination was slowly giving way to dejection.
The pungent stench of death permeated the air.
Rescue workers covered their faces with T-shirts to escape the smell of decaying flesh.
It seeped into their clothes, crawled inside their skin and lungs.
Each body they pulled out took an emotional toll as well.
The number of volunteers had thinned.
By Friday, rescuers had finished scouring the rubble and were drilling their way to the building's basement.
The recovery operation was almost over. They hadn't found a survivor in almost a week.
Then, someone noticed a rod jutting out from an opening, waving wildly.
They heard a woman's frail pleas: "Bachao, bachao."
Slackjawed with disbelief, elated with wonder, they rushed to the spot.