“Help,” she croaked. Her voice did not sound like her own. It barely sounded human at all. She tried to lick her lips, but the effect was like rubbing sandpaper across rough stone. She winced at the sensation before turning her head back and forth in an attempt to locate the source of the sound. Margaret could no longer remember which direction the door faced, but she hoped that the now constant noise came from there. If it came from anywhere else then she would never see the conductor of her salvation’s symphony. The walls of the safe room were all but impenetrable, so an assault upon anything but the door was little more than some repair that would most likely be finished long after her death.
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