The man on the T.V. said it was of utmost importance. Usually flippant in demeanor, this time he cracked no jokes with the weatherman, and only occasionally did he put down his paper to wipe the sweat from his brow. Eventually, the quaver in his voice turned to stammering, and the camera panned away as his sobs emanated through the T.V. set. Mother quickly flipped the switch and ushered me to the basement door—Father stood waiting with half a dozen suitcases and arms laden with cans of all colors and sizes. In a delicate solemnity, we left the T.V. man behind and descended the stairs; Father was sure to latch the door behind him. 

The better part of the day was spent brushing the cobwebs from the corners and squishing their inhabitants in an act Mother called “spring cleaning”. A “day” was only defined by the digital clock we had placed on the dresser, as the sun could hardly penetrate the ground and the metal walls of the room. Afterwards, Father brandished a deck of cards—this entertained us for some time. 

“Can we go back yet?” Everything I said in the room felt muted, as if the air was reluctant to convey my words. 

“Not yet,” Mother said soothingly. “But we’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it. This will all be over soon.” 

Father spoke from the corner of the room. “Diane, how long has it been?”

“About a week and three days,” she responded. “We shouldn’t be concerned about things like this.”

Father seemed as if he had not heard. “What time is it?”

 She glanced at the clock.

“3:06.” 

“Well,” he began, “it feels like it’s been 3:06 for a long minute, hasn’t it?” 

Nobody spoke. The mood had been saturated with a feeling of uneasiness for the longest time, and now it was corpulent to the point of bursting into argument. Mother laughed nervously.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “It’s just 3:06.” 

“No, no,” said Father. “Watch the clock.” All eyes were posted on the electronic numbers.

I counted out a second in my head. Then two. Then three. When I reached fourty, Mother stood and paced over to the clock, picking it up and shaking it. She frowned. 

“Well, I suppose we should wait a bit longer.”

Forty-eight. Fifty-six. At this point, Father had already stopped glancing at the clock and instead buried his face in his arms. There were moments in which I was reluctant to count, as to count was to reaffirm some horrible truth. Mother stopped pacing and collapsed into a chair. The room felt like it had shrunk in size.

“Is the clock broken?” she whispered. Father’s silence was an ample response.

Exhaling deeply, he said: “I’m going outside.” There was a raucous tumult as Mother fell off her chair and scrambled to his side. 

“Please, no!” she cried. “The poisons, the horrors, who knows what’s out there? Please, the government said to wait at least a month, and it's barely been over a week…”

“How could you know?” Father raised his tone. He gestured at the clock. “For all we know, it could have already been a month, or two! Our supplies are near empty—how could we have gone through them in a week?” 

Mother seemed to struggle for words. Father gently pried her fingers from his wrist and placed his foot on the first step. 

“I’ll be quick.” Taking the remaining steps, he clicked open the latches and was out in a flash. Mother, who had resigned to the chair, interlaced her hands in her hair and sat with elbows resting on her knees. She suddenly rose and snatched the clock off the dresser, throwing it across the room. I flinched as it skidded to my feet.

The numbers peered through the fractured glass. Tracing them with my eyes, I could make out their distinctive shapes. It was 3:07.