My father reached into his pocket and pulled out an old silver pocket watch.

He held it up by the chain, letting it swing gently in front of my face.

“Do you remember the grandfather clock in the parlor, Natalie?” he asked.

His voice had changed, taking on a rhythmic, measured tone.

“It chimed at six o’clock,” I said, the words slipping out before I could think.

“And what did the pendulum say?” Raymond asked.

“Tick,” I said.

“Tock,” Raymond whispered.

“The house is warm, Natalie.”

“The smoke is rising.”

A sudden wave of heat washed over my skin, so intense I almost screamed.

I wasn’t in the bunker anymore.

I was eight years old, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at a wall of fire.

My mother was standing in the flames, her face perfectly calm.

She was holding a clipboard, watching me.

“What is the number on the door, Natalie?” Caroline’s voice echoed in my head.

“Seven,” I whispered in the bunker.

“Four.”

“Two.”

“Nine.”

“One.”

The numbers poured out of me, a stream of digits I didn’t recognize but knew intimately.