Except all good things come to an end, and his reverie was indeed spoiled. Thankfully, however, it was spoiled by a much more mundane if somewhat pertinent concern: how in the hell were they supposed to get out? Handy looked back sharply at the ruined ballroom entrance. There was no way they could dig their way through that. Like the protesting engine of an old truck revving up, a mighty groan escaped him as he buried his head in his hands. Handy was now somewhere below ground, in a situation where he was neither in control of nor even knew all the details of, and he just had his only known method of exit collapse behind him. Again.