Saturday morning began with the sound of rain hitting the concrete roof of the bunker. It was a dull, rhythmic drumming that seemed to isolate us further from the world above. I was awake at five, pacing the small confines of the sleeping quarters. The bed was narrow, the sheets stiff. It felt less like a place to rest and more like a cell. I had slept for four hours, broken by dreams of cars following us, of faces blurring into static, of Eleanor calling out for me in a voice I couldn't locate.
At six, Sarah knocked on the door. She was already dressed in tactical gear, dark and nondescript. Her hair was pulled back tightly. She held a tablet in one hand and a thermal mug in the other.
"Coffee," she said, handing me the mug. "Black. Two sugars. Just how you need it today."
I took it. T
