A rustle in the dark. The blackness that surrounds is so thick, it seems to have a physical presence; covering eyes with quick fingers and pressing on chests until all of the air has been forced out. Barely daring to breathe, listening for the noise is difficult when the silence fills your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat.

There is was again. The rustle, this time accompanied by a whisper.

"Son of a bitch." There was a pause and then, out of the darkness, a flame, small and quivering manifested itself on the end of a matchstick. The cursing presence in the dark used the little yellow flame to light a candle by the bedside before dropping it in a cup of water left on the floor.

"Harriet, you know what mum said. No lights after sunset." John didn't even care about the swear she uttered. He knew himself how difficult it was to get the clumsy little matches to catch on the worn paper.

"We are going to need the light in a moment. Can you-"

"Harriet!" John interrupted; he was eager to avoid the scolding of his mother.

"Shhhh...the windows are blacked out anyway. Can you hear it?" John looked nervously to the clumsily painted windows- the whole Watson family was sleeping under patched quilts and eating stale bread- there was no way they had enough to afford the blackout paint that was ideal, or required. The nights were too cold to hang their remaining blankets on the windows, so they searched for money to buy white paint, which they later tainted with ink to make it slightly more opaque.

John strained his ears for the all-too familiar noise.

"I don't hear it. Wouldn't the sirens-"

"Shhh...it's there. You know the sirens don't work for shit." Harriet was a little older than John, so she was a little more relaxed with her language. That's to say, she swore like a seasoned sailor. "Listen!''

Sure enough, there it was. A low drone; barely audible. They were coming. The planes were on their way.

It was the height of the London Blitz. The whole world was at war, but this was their second time around. Whole countries were bitter and angry and determined to do better than the first time. This rage inspired people to become cleverer; to get better at the business of war. The third reich was rising up from the ashes of World War one, and it was their people who were in the planes dropping bombs in the dead of night. They were the ones dropping bombs on all the streets of London, not caring if they landed on empty street corners or on the homes of the elderly or even on the roof of the Watson family, the only two children of which were sleeping in the attic space. The Watson residence was very crowded; grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and cousins all lived under one roof. John and Harriet had to be courteous to the 'permanent guests,' so they were the ones sleeping in the attic, looking out the small opaque window, listening for the low drones of the third Reich on their way.

"C'mon, John! Hurry up, we need to go now!"

"Go wake the others, I'm coming."

"John, don't fool around, those are bombs falling from the sky, not grandmother's dentures. Hurry the fuck up." Harriet loved John, but was a bit roundabout when it came to showing it.

"Just don't get blown up, please. You're annoying, but I prefer you in one piece. Meet you at the shelter." Harriet rushed down the creaky wooden steps to wake up the rest of the Watson residence. She could be heard shouting from three floors below; the walls were as soundproof as soggy newsprint.

John knew the drill. Throw on his thin, patched coat. Jump into his shoes. Grab his pack, already filled from the night before. Then it was time to run.

Down the stairs, through the door and out into the night. Running to the bomb shelter like his life depended on it. In fact, his life did depend on it; the accuracy with which the planes dropped shit was awful at best. No one was aiming for a dingy side street in London, but when the whole city was dark, it was difficult to tell where bombs were falling.

The cold air was biting; even more so to John whose clothes were threadbare. His lungs were pinching when he arrived at the closest shelter. There was something wrong though- people were milling about outside; why weren't they going in? John ducked beneath the elbows of the crowd until he found Harriet by the door, struggling with the door handle.

"What's the matter, why aren't we going in?"

"Listen here, dipshit. Do you think we are standing here because we want to? The people who own the shelter are out of town and left the damn door locked. Happy? We are never going to survive out here if they start dropping shit." One of the adults from down the road piped up,

"When was the last time they got a good shot on us though? The closest bomb in the last few weeks was over five kilometers away." There was a murmur of agreement among the adults. One of the more confident of the adults vocalized to the crowd,

"I'm going home. This is a waste of time; I'm cold." He hadn't uttered the final syllable when the ground shook and there was the noise of a building being rent apart not even three blocks away. A hush fell over the crowd again as they all came to the same realization: the bombs were close. They were getting closer too, and their only hope of avoiding them lied behind a locked door. The smallest children began crying; John himself was on the edge of tears. It was all so overwhelming; the ground shook more violently as he sat on the grass, staring out into the darkness. He was convinced that he was going to die waiting outside the bomb shelter. All because some idiot forgot to leave a key with a neighbor when they left town for the weekend.

Just as John was about to break down and sob, a small figure came bolting out of the darkness. The figure was much like John; dressed in patched clothes and skinny from undernourishment; the only visible difference was the hair color. This little boy sported dark, curly hair. John's was as straight as a pin and flaxen-colored.

The little figure was running with as much desperation as John was before; the rushed, wild look in his light eyes distracted you from the jagged cut on his cheek. He approached John and said between pants,

"What are you waiting out here for? Those bombs are headed this way." John simply replied,

"It's locked," too tired to say anything else. The dark-haired youth scoffed.

"What ass locks a bomb shelter? Nevermind, come with me." He grabbed John's hand and led him through the crowd to the door.

"Is this it?" John was confused at this boy. What did he want to know about the door?

"Is what it?"

"Is everyone this slow around here? First someone locks the door, now you. Is this the door to the shelter?" John was rather offended. He could be rather clever, but at the moment, he was a bit preoccupied with other matters.

"Of course it is!"

"Perfect. Now, hold this for me." The dark-haired youth passed him some strange-looking tools. By this point, the adults had begun to notice this unfamiliar face fiddling with the door at the front of the crowd.

"Hey! What are you doing? Stop messing with the door, you're going to break it!" This strange boy turned around and said rather forcefully,

"Oi! Shut it mate, I'm picking the lock," he paused for a moment for dramatic effect before saying, "Unless...you know, you want me to stop. Those bombs are only getting closer." The adults were hushed, but only for a moment. Time was precious and becoming even more so as the ground began to shake more and more violently.

"Well, get on with it! Don't just stand there!" He turned back to the lock, pleased with himself, before saying to John,

"Adults. Always getting in the way. Now pass me the pointy tool." John was happy to oblige.