He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black fob.

He swiped it against the sensor beside the heavy steel door.

The lock clicked, and the heavy door slid open three inches before stopping.

“The primary power override is still active,” Dr. Vance said. “You’ll have to force it the rest of the way.”

I turned my back to him for a split second to check the hallway.

The red emergency lights were still pulsing.

The air smelled of ozone and damp concrete from the storm outside.

“Move,” I told Dr. Vance, pointing toward the corridor.

He stepped through the opening first, his leather shoes squeaking on the floor.

I followed him, holding Clara against my shoulder.

Her breathing was warm and steady against my neck.

We entered a narrow, concrete hallway lit by low-wattage yellow bulbs.

This was the old section of the bunker, built decades ago before the Whitmores bought the property.

“The office is at the end of this run,” Dr. Vance said, his voice echoing in the tight space.

“Keep moving,” I said.