6:00: TURN OFF ALARM   – CHECK.

6:01: DRINK CUP OF WATER – CHECK.

6:02: DO MORNING STRETCHES – CHECK.

6:07: BRUSH TEETH – 

For the first time in 3,285 days, Haralda couldn't tick every box off her morning checklist. Holding the clipboard between her teeth, she pushed against the wall with her foot and yanked hard on the bedroom door. She'd been pulling on it for about five minutes, and the muscles in her arms were wobbling under the stress. Her black pyjama sleeves kept sticking to her skin. For the moment, at least, she ignored the fact that a blue number was radiating out from her palm – it wasn't exactly going to help her get that door open.

Satan himself must have superglued it to the wall. Haralda's cheeks burned like she'd showered in hot sauce. What the hell was her life going to amount to if she broke her nine-year streak today? She blushed furiously as she thought of the most important authority figure of the school – the deputy head – arriving late to work. How could anyone expect to trust her with forging the latest generation into upstanding citizens if she herself made mistakes? Losing her job would only be the start of it. Once the press got involved and it worked its way up to national news, she could pretty much forget about ever being allowed near children again. After that, a career at McDonalds, and after that – suicide.

Haralda wasn't going to let that happen. She surveyed her bedroom for a solution. Unfortunately, her minimalism was working against her here, and she was starting to regret following that Marie Kondo program last month. This inner city flat had rooms the size of a shoebox. It prioritised floorspace over furniture, leaving her with a bed rammed under paper-thin curtains and a sagging fabric wardrobe rammed into the bit where the bed wasn't. There wasn't even wallpaper, just that community centre shade of magnolia that smelled like old people. She kept her loose items – phone, clipboard, and pencil pot – on the windowsill.

Good thing Haralda'd made a fire escape plan when she moved in. All she had to do was heft up the mattress, drop it out the window, try to land on it, and then depending on how many bones she'd broken, drive or limp to work. First, she changed out of her ironed pyjamas into an outfit that screamed authority, pairing a gunmetal cardigan with a floral ankle-length skirt. Then she fished the key to the bedroom window out the pencil pot – always kept it locked just to be safe – and drew open the curtains, making the room imperceptibly brighter.

Haralda gasped, and then she said, "Bother."

Outside the window, she'd expected to see a rundown Italian restaurant that would completely change colour if you pressure-washed it. Instead, she saw a blinding carpet of fluffy clouds stretching out towards the horizon, and she saw the sun high in the sky. How the hell was her flat on an aeroplane?

Slotting the key into the window, she pushed it open, and thin, icy air rushed into the room. It was like inhaling a snowball. For a moment, her flushed face felt refreshed, before little pricks of pain sprung up. She covered her mouth with her hand to stop the brain freeze until the tips of her fingers went numb as well. Supporting her window, and presumably the room, was a wall of carved marble bricks that rolled on down through the clouds. So, she was in a tower.

After debating whether or not it would be prudent to turn on her heating whilst it was still morning, Haralda shut the window and dug another cardigan out of her wardrobe.

It was then that she decided to truly register, for the first time, the number shining out of her palm. It read 651. Then it climbed, steadily, as if counting time, resting briefly at 663. When she shook her hand, the number dispersed into a cloud of particles before regrouping at an ever higher number. 

She allowed herself one minute to panic. Generally, she only liked to panic by rolling around on her bed late at night, but every authority figure knows that sometimes exceptions have to be made.

After she'd thoroughly messed up her hair and clothes from wiggling around like some crazy worm, she sat up and grabbed her clipboard. The weight felt good in her hands. She'd tried all sorts of religions, homeopathy, and healing crystals, but nothing absorbed negative energy like her productivity enhancer. It cleared her mind out, good and proper. The first thing to do in any unknown situation was obvious: make a checklist. She exhaled and put pen to paper.

CHECK PHONE SIGNAL – 

? CALL WORK – 

?? FIND ANOTHER WAY TO REPORT ABSENCE –  

? DISCERN LOCATION – 

BREAK DOWN DOOR – 

? BRUSH TEETH – 

? HAVE SHOWER – 

FIGURE OUT WHAT THE NUMBERS MEAN – 

WRITE NEW CHECKLIST –  

There were a lot of unknown variables. If there was anything that Haralda hated, it was unknown variables. She picked up her old second-hand phone and hoped there was still credit left on it –  generally, she preferred everyone used landlines because of the improved call quality, but the rest of the world disagreed.

The phone had signal. Shaking, she navigated her address book with its clumsy buttons, stopping upon Barden City School, and pressed call. She found herself blushing again as it rang. If there was anything Haralda hated more than unknown variables, it was being in trouble.

Click. Silence.

"Hello?" said Haralda.

A French man with a low, crackly voice replied.

He said, "You're number one of nine, Haralda. When the count on your hand hits ten thousand, the person who interests my audience the least will die."

"Is this one of the parents?" she barked. "How dare you address me in such a manner?"

"If you want to live, be interesting."

The man hung up, and somebody knocked on the door.