What’s our safest path?” Andrei asks me, speaking from the corner of his mouth in Russian. The corridor is emptying quickly now, as the Nazi workers dive into offices and vaults to hunt for something sturdy to cower under. But Rostov’s map of the compound didn’t extend to this hall; we’ve no idea if there’s even a way out of the mountain down here. I fling myself into the visions—searching for any signs of devastation in our immediate future. That way, up ahead, another cave-in of rubble is coming for us, in less than a minute’s time. I reach for the metal door nearest to me without glancing at its lettering—there’s no time, because the moment I touch the cool handle, another vision envelops me. A man, frazzle-haired and thin as a shadow in his lab coat, his face blunted by too many horrors and his eyes guarded. The vision grows fingers, spreading away—in one, he runs down a cobblestone alley while sirens scream overhead. In another, he sits in a classroom, older now, guiding a dark-haired girl through her work.
