This is a wrong place, I shouldn’t have come here. Not that I have a choice.
The air is wet and damp and shockingly hot as I get off the airplane. Here in New Dehli we disembark from the plane on a rickety old bamboo ladder.
My name is Ahmed, and I’m a calculator. Not in the modern sense of the word, an inanimate box. But in the older sense, someone who does calculations by hand on paper.
Why am I anxious in New Dehli? One word, time. I’m here to stop it from ending. I have heard of a bit of metal, well metal, plastic and ceramics. And that bit of metal is the key to the bomb that supposed to stop time, unless I can crack the key first.