You’ll only drive yourself mad,” Dobbs says. He’s caught me staring up at the escape hatch again. I know the circular trapdoor in the ceiling goes nowhere. I’ve already pulled on that handle. Nothing but a forty-foot concrete plug. If this were 1960 and the silo still operational, a four-ton column of sand would be released, providing clear access to the surface. “There’s no way out of here. You should know that by now. It’s been two months already.” “Two months, three weeks, and two days.” He looks at me like I’ve got maggots crawling out of my mouth. He rounds off weeks as though they don’t matter. That I keep strict records bothers him. The only time to be concerned about is the End of the World, he tells me. I tell him the End of the World has happened. “All I’m saying is the sooner you think of this as home, the better off you’ll be.” He exits through the door, walking backward, as is his custom now. He will come back in a few hours or a few days and enter the room just as cautiously.
