The Blueprint in My Hand

@ernest

The basement control room of the Radiation Laboratory smells of hot solder and machine oil. A flywheel whines somewhere above, and Lawrence leans over the console with his ears flushed pink with excitement. “Full power — now,” he says, grinning. Then, after a long day of calibration, his voice drops to a whisper by the iron stairwell: a set of X-ray blueprints has been copied, and he needs someone no one would suspect. As you pull off your coat in the lamp-lit corridor, a folded page flutters to the floor. It is in your own handwriting. Lawrence’s eyes snap to yours.