Jack was outside the barn door, playing with action figures before bed. Will looked over, smiled, and kept on whistling tunelessly. Jack looked up, saw the bomb drop. It punched through the barn’s frail roof, scattering tiles, splintering wood. Then the flame: a wall of fire, bright and cold and … It was dark. He was cold. He was in a car, moving, his head resting against the passenger-side window. Wind whistled off-key through two sharp-edged breaks in the glass. Bullet holes. Christmas lights. The smell of coffee. Nick’s cab. Someone shared the backseat with him, curled into herself, the painted words on the back of her hoodie catching the moonlight: RESPECT EXISTENCE OR EXPECT RESISTANCE. Amy. She was alive. Nick glanced at him in the rearview. “So,” he inquired. “How was your evening?” The radio was burbling. Some loudmouth Jack remembered from his high school years was still bellowing down the airwaves¸ except this time he sounded more alarmed than brash.
