Maya’s POV
The pounding on the door continued, each knock louder and more violent than the last.
It echoed through the tiny house, making the windows rattle in their frames.
I looked from the door to the wounded man.
The little color that remained in his face vanished completely.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
His voice was so low I almost didn’t hear it.
“What do I do now?” I asked, my own voice trembling despite my efforts to remain calm.
My frightened eyes darted around the room before settling on the old woven mat lying in the middle of the kitchen floor.
The cellar. A memory from my childhood rushed back to me.
When I was little, my father had built a small underground storage cellar beneath the kitchen floor. During the hottest months of the year, my mother used it to keep v
