Yelena's head snaps up at the sound of rotted boards giving way, and she's halfway to her feet when she hears him land, cursing, not so far below. It's almost a relief, given the landscape's occasional tendency to swallow people whole with very little warning. She forces herself to pause, to survey the hole in the flower bed - and it is a hole, still there and visible - before stretching out on her stomach to peer over the ragged edge. The scent of crushed flowers is thick and cloying in the back of her throat, and she winces as her motion sends a few clods of dirt over the edge and into the murky hollow below.

At least, with her weight distributed this way, it doesn't send her tumbling down on top of him, which is the point.

"Are you all right?" she calls. He's not hard to spot, at least, amidst the shadows of what appears to be half-decayed shelving.