Elias watched the paper burn with a look of pale exhaustion.

“We have to go,” Elias said, looking at his watch. “The elevator is locked down. They’re taking the stairs.”

“Save the paper!” Arthur shouted at Elias. “Get the ashes!”

“They’re ashes, Mr. Whitmore,” Elias said. “There’s nothing to save.”

I dropped the remaining burning fragments into the metal bin.

They flared up once, a bright flash of light that reflected in the windowpane behind me, and then died down into glowing red embers.

The smell of burnt paper was thick and heavy in the room.

My heart was still racing, but the panic had cleared.

I felt a strange, cold calm take its place.

I looked at my father.

His hair was disheveled, and his expensive wool coat looked suddenly too large for him.

“You don’t have the numbers,” Arthur whispered, staring into the bottom of the wastebasket.

“You burned them.”

“I don’t need them,” I said.

“But you do.”

Elias’s radio buzzed again, louder this time.

“Elias, they’re on the fourth floor,” a voice gasped. “We can’t stop them. They have…”