I rub my hands through my hair, trying to force myself to focus on the techniques I learned from my therapy sessions with Dr. Washburne. Anger is useful, I remember. I just have to channel it in a productive direction: at the OCD that’s disrupting my life, not at myself for being vulnerable. That’s what helped me recover in the first place—getting angrier at my OCD than I was afraid of it and using that energy to push myself through the hardest parts of exposure and response prevention therapy. I don’t know how much good it’ll do me in this situation, though.

Elliott breaks into my thoughts. “I can’t do anything about the shoes, but there’s fresh clothes over there.”

I glance up. He’s draped in an oversized black poncho, standing next to the metal shelves, rifling through boxes and stuffing supplies into a big green duffel bag. He motions at the dresser, where a fresh set of clothes waits.

I narrow my eyes at the dresser. “Are those clothes imaginary?” I ask. “If I put them on, will they disappear later?”

He shrugs, grabbing a few packets of what look like dried banana chips and tossing them in the bag. “Warm and dry and imaginary is better than wet and cold and real, in my book.”

I swing my feet out of the bed and onto the floor. My stomach grumbles and I slosh through the water toward the shelves in search of breakfast. Or—dinner? I have no way of telling time in this bunker.

“We’re going to have to head out pretty quick,” Elliott informs me. “We need to reach the airport before the hurricane strengthens.”

“Why can’t we just wait it out here?”

He nods at the ankle-high water. “Apparently there’s a reason this place was decommissioned. It just started raining again ten minutes ago. At this rate, we’re going to be swimming in about an hour. Plus if the eye wall is headed this direction, it might damage the planes—which means we’ll need to try to take off as soon as we get there, before it hits. Luckily I have at least a little experience flying in storms.”

I raise my brows. He seems suddenly much more eager than before to fly us to London. I’m glad he’s come to his senses, but I’m positive that taking off in the fog, in the middle of a hurricane—even a small one—isn’t going to be nearly as easy as he makes it out to be.