Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.

“Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.

I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.

“Go ahead and grab it—gently.”

Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.

“No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”

I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.

“I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”

My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”

Nine hours after we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.

My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.

“I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.

I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”

But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”

I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.” And I’m captured.

My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.

“And what kind of life is that?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?