The lightning arrived, disappeared just as quickly. The window, a fairly large piece of glass to a girl that small, shook against its frame as the audible wake struck the house. Her fingers dug into the pillow held tightly against her heaving chest. The pillow was her best friend in the world right now: it was soft, quiet, and didn't expect anything of her as it caught the third of what would be many, many tears. She took the break between flashes to lift her head and swallow down full breaths. To her right, the rest of the over-sized dining room stretched, ending on the plain white door opposite her window. The door wasn't completely closed. The dark crack between its edge and the door frame seemed to expand and contract spastically with each series of flashes, but she knew it wasn't moving. She knew that the storm couldn't hurt her in here. This was her haven. There the logs in the fireplace were probably still burning, gently warming the table before it. On that mahogany surface, her thimble was probably right where she had left it on Baltic Avenue. It was a Christmas postcard still life.

And there was the little girl, huddled at the end of the dining room, the only thing separating her from the raging winds outside was a vibrating sheet of glass. She placed her hand against the window, embracing the its cold. It reminded her of the crystal glasses and plates her mother had brought out the last time they had hosted a big dinner. She saw in her mind the heavy glass slipping from her grip, falling past the edge of her dinner dress. It shattered into hundreds of pieces across the wood floor. Another flash of lightning, another boom, and the window shook against her fingers. The thunder didn't sound like it had before. At this point she could hardly remember what the world sounded like without the torrent, but she had grown used to the booms, and this one was different. Thunder faded, window settled, but the booming continued. The anger wasn't coming from the world outside, but from within her haven. It wasn't mother nature, but her father's nature. She hated how his voice could carry anywhere in the house no matter how many closed doors were between him and herself. There was another crash, but not light to go with it. The noise was followed by the sounds of lots of small things landing in different directions. Her little metal thimble wasn't anywhere near Baltic now.

She held her breath. The technique had worked for her countless times before. When something was going terribly wrong, she would hold her breath. While her mind focused on resisting the urge to inhale, the problem would solve itself or an exit would reveal itself. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. As she was about to hit thirty-five, she heard a loud smack from the living room. It was a familiar sound, and she was almost certain what made it, but she had never actually seen the cause. She didn't want to. But the storm was getting worse, and every time the glass shook against her shoulder, the little girl was reminded of the fragile crystal cup. She stood, leaving the pillow on the little ledge under the window. Her feet were unsteady, as though she hadn't walked in months. The voices weren't getting any louder as she approached the door. In fact, they seemed to be calming.

The girl cautiously reached for the door, her tiny hands gently shaking. As her fingers were mere inches from the brass knob, the door opened toward her. She almost leapt back, but instantly calmed as her mother's face appeared from the darkness. She was beautiful woman, her smile warm and eyes full of grace. But something was different. There was a large red and yellow circle around the woman's left eye, and a pink mark covering her opposite cheek. And yet she continued to smile. Her words were gentle, comforting. The little girl could hardly hear what her mother was saying, but it didn't matter. She could feel her heart slowing, her breath calming. The girl wanted to run through the doorway, latch herself around the young woman's waist, and never let go. She wanted to say and ask a thousand things of her mother, but she never got the chance. Her mother smiled again, slipped back into the living room, and shut the door behind her. The room instantly filled with light, plunged into darkness again. The boom returned. The phone rang.

Miss Parker's eyes shot open. She blinked a few times, reflexively wiping away the water beginning to form in her eyes. Her heart was racing. The Centre agent spun in her leather chair toward her office's window, watching as a solid mass of thunderclouds slowly marched across the bay. The rain was blowing straight towards the large building's face, and it looked like the storm would only get worse. Miss Parker took a deep breath and held it, trying to push back the dismay swelling inside her. She focused as hard as she could on the simple mechanisms of her lungs, but the sadness wouldn't be ignored. She grimaced, let her breath come, and slipped a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket. Drawing a coffin nail and slipping it between her glossed lips, she lit up. First the smoke, then the burning. It took six excruciating seconds from ignition, but her body finally began to settle down. The breathing trick had failed again. It hadn't worked for years, ever since her mother had stepped onto that elevator.

The phone continued to ring. Allowing herself a few more puffs, Miss Parker jammed the cig into the tray on her desk and answered the demanding receiver.

"Parker," she declared, her tone implying that her name alone should answer most of this caller's questions.

"Hope you weren't planning on walking home today, Miss Parker. A nice young man at Naval Weather said that the Delaware was going to get slammed today."

"Jarod."

She resisted the urge to snatch the dead cigarette from the tray and relight it. It was a wonder Jarod couldn't hear her grinding teeth through the line.

"It's a little overcast here," he said, ignoring his name. "We'll probably be hit with what you're seeing in an hour or two."

"I don't know why you had to call Norfolk, you were a meteorologist a couple of months back," she responded, managing to turn weatherman into an insult. "How is D.C.? I hear the mall is lovely this time of year."

"I wouldn't know. It's on my list of places to see, but I'm not quite there yet."

"Stuck at the White House?"

"You're always right on top of where I am, it's a wonder I'm not back in that bubble by now."

"Oh, it's a mystery for the ages. I'm assuming tracing this line would be pointless?"

"If your father let you use those hunches of yours more often, I'm pretty sure I would-"

"Do not bring my father into this," Parker shot in.

There was a momentary silence. She looked at the dead cig, rolled her eyes, and drew out a new one.

"A conversation for another time, then," Jarod said, his tone as casual as ever.

"Oh, we'll have plenty of time to talk after I drag your ass back here."

She heard him chuckle as she drew deep from the leaves.

"Every time you call," Parker began, forcing the smoke out her nostrils, "I think it's just to drive me closer to that aneurysm. Then you're cryptic, I figure out what you're trying to tell me, and at the end of the day I'm just as aggravated as when I sat up in bed. So why don't you cut through the B.S. and tell me why I know where you are?"

"I'm not sure that I can do that. You see, it involves your father, but you just told me not to-"

"Jarod!" She shouted, smacking her open palm against the desk.

"I'm not giving any more questions this time, only answers. Unfortunately, I don't have them."

"Then how in the hell can you give them to me?"

"You want this or not?"

She hated him. She hated how he knew more about her life, her family, and her company than she ever would. She hated being completely unable to resist any piece of information about herself and the Centre that he dangled in front of her.

"What is it," she asked before nearly biting through the tobacco.

"You have to promise to share the answers with me after you get them."

"And I would do this because..."

"Because you won't understand them without me."

She scoffed. "I have to tell you, Jarod, condescension isn't the best strategy when you're asking for help."

"Is that a "yes"?"

"It's a "show me what you have and I'll get back to you"."

"Fine. Ask Broots about One-six-seven. When he doesn't find it, ask him how secure it is. Sydney will know how to reach me."

There was a click as the line went dead. Parker dropped the receiver back into its home and turned toward the storm. It continued to grow worse.