Mickey strode through the short grass, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. His cap was pulled down low, and he avoided looking at anyone. Maybe that way they would never be able to identify him, just in case his plan went south. The scowl hidden in shadows under the brim of his baseball hat etched lines all the way across his forehead and drew the corners of his mouth down.

[Peter Billings was going to pay.]

These words had become a mantra in Mickey’s mind, and his resolve for revenge solidified with each repetition.

The morning had started out great. Mickey was happy as he arrived at the ball field; after all, he was supposed to pitch in today’s game. But then coach said he heard about a comment Mickey had made the day before, and had benched him. It was all Peter’s fault; he had told the coach what Mickey had said—in confidence—and then that smug jerk actually had the nerve to laugh about it, in front of the rest of the team!

Mickey stormed away from the field, and was on his way home when the plan came to him. He knew where to find the gun, and he decided then, that Peter was going to pay for being a snitch.

***

When Mickey reached the ball field, he ducked under the bleachers. The weight of the loaded gun tucked into his belt at the small of his back gave him all the courage he needed.

He knew the loading of the gun—with vinegar and black ink, instead of water—was nothing short of inspired.

[Oh yeah, Peter was going to pay all right.]

“Give me a double-shot of your best whiskey, Andy.”

I normally drank a beer or two when I sat at the bar after work, but the success of today’s experiment called for something a bit stronger. I knew I should draft a report to General MacIntyre, but I couldn’t face that chore without some liquid courage. The truth was I was torn between wanting to celebrate, and needing to commiserate. Pride and fear battled for control.

“Tough day?” Andy asked, as he poured golden fire into a crystal glass. He was the closest thing I had to a best friend; the fact that he was my bartender says either something wonderful about him, or something pitiful about me. Hell, probably a little of both.

“You have no idea.” I slammed the whiskey all at once, and felt my eyes turning red as the heat settled in my core and spread through my body. “You ever wonder if maybe life would be better in a different reality?”

“I have enough trouble dealing with my actual life, let alone an imaginary one.”

That was the problem, though. I now knew there was more to the idea of alternate realities than imagination. Knowledge may be power, but the revelation of some secrets can make you wish for the bliss of ignorance. That was the double-edged lesson today’s results had taught me.

“Thanks, Andy.” I laid a twelve-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

I stood to leave, and saw Nora Kimble come through the door. She never came in here, and I was afraid that she had even more disturbing news—a thought reinforced by her locked eye contact when she saw me. I made my way over to her, as the whiskey traveled deeper into both my body and my mind. “Nora... what’s wrong?”

“We’ve had another transfer.”

I blanched. This could be bad. “Should I go back upstairs?”

“It won’t matter.” She tipped her head, and I followed her to a table. “Look David, We both know that stream 841-C is the only viable doorway, and this newest transfer is worse than we imagined it could be. I am afraid that when we opened it we may have let in more than just particles and elements from the other stream.”

“It is the only viable doorway SO FAR, Nora. We still have lots of vibrasyne wavelengths to try.”

“Come on. What have we gotten so far? A handful of streams with audible transmissions, and a couple that have picked up some sort of keyed signals that may or may not contain visual data.”

“But finding the doorway to 841-C… Nora, the ability to transfer actual matter changes everything!”

“That’s the whole problem, David, and you know it.” She gave the bar a quick once-over with her eyes, then leaned her head closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “How long do you think MacIntyre and his committee will let us keep working on the project? They will want to explore the military potential. Or even worse, they’ll just bury it all, like they do everything that could upset their power-hold on the country.”

“Why do you think I’m here, and not writing a report?” After-Hours was located in the lobby of the building that housed our work, and was a favorite of many of the staff—a place where the beer and alcohol tasted good, and Andy ruled supreme without dictates and oversight groups. “I’m curious though… what happened that has you so anxious you ventured in here?” I knew Nora didn’t drink, and this was probably her first trip inside the bar.

“I knew you’d be here, and I had to tell you about this...” She reached into her lab coat pocket, and brought out a folded piece of paper.

“That looks like an old sheet of infopaper. Where did you get it?”

“David, it IS an infopaper, but it came from the other stream!”

“WHAT?” The room seemd to tilt a slight bit off center. “All we got the first time was some air and water… and the samples looked promising. No known pathogens, and the same chemical composition we would expect to find anywhere.”

“Read the topline…”

I picked up the paper. It was thicker than it should have been, with an odd texture and a strange gray cast to it, but the words were in English. The message however, was terrifying: COVID-19 PANDEMIC CLAIMS ANOTHER 200,000 LIVES.

“What the hell is COVID-19?”

“I’m afraid it is a new, and potentially very deadly, virus.”

“Nora, does this mean—”

“I’m afraid it just might. We may have infected the world with something that could kill us all.”

I started to read the article, but something else caught my eye. A small story on the second sheet made me catch my breath. “This can’t be right.”

“What?” Nora craned her head to look at the page.

“We thought 841-C might be what we needed to escape our political and environmental woes, but Nora…”

Her eyes begged me not to give her even more bad news.

“According to this, these idiots not only have a major pandemic, but they elected Donald Trump president!”

Her expression of stunned disbelief spoke volumes. So much for a perfect world.

Memories fade into the steady rhythm of my run.

Up and down dusty mountain paths. Through fields. Past elk and hundreds of trees.

Near highways and houses that seem a world away, when they are really just a stone’s throw.

When I run, it’s a different place. A different reality. To me, more real than the place I found myself not a year ago.

Injured. Broken. Entire life turned upside down. Like a dream I have never woken from.

I used to run, climb and jump like it was nothing. For the sheer love of moving. Then suddenly, I couldn’t move at all. Suddenly, I had to work my way back from zero. Frist, a wobbly stand. Then, take a step. Then, stumble down the hall with a walker.

But that was then. Now, I can run, again.

There is still pain. Still healing. Still scars and memories that haunt me at night.

Running is not as easy as it once was. But I train hard, with dreams of my first full marathon.

Dreams of a triumphant comeback. Twice as far as I have ever gone, before.

I tell myself that’s what I run for.

But really, the training is an anchor. In a world that still seems a dream, it is familiar. Real. Visceral.

I run because it drowns out the memory of my own screams. Because it grounds me.

The smell of dusty earth, a reminder that world is still the same.

The elk glancing up at my presence, a reminder that I still exist.

The aching legs, a reminder that my body is still working, even if not as well as before.

I forget my worries, my sorrows, my interrupted career, and just run.

Again, and again. Farther and faster.

Until the day I stand at the starting line of a full marathon. Fall into the practiced rhythm as the buzzer sounds.

This time, my steps pound over asphalt. People and cars replace elk and trees.

But the run is still the same. Ignore the crowd. Ignore the noise. Keep the pace I practiced over a million footfalls.

Last year, I could barely stand. Now I’m here.

Not the fastest, not the slowest. Just another face in the crowd,

But I know what I overcame to get here, and that motivates me to keep going.

I push through hours of single-minded focus, to pass the finish line.

Victorious.

I came back from it all. Fought thorough all the pain and doubt to cross that line.

But as my exhaustion wears off and my breath steadies, I find I don’t feel any different.

What I imagined as a great comeback, fizzles into another name in the crowd.

I feel little elation or sense of victory.

I’d wanted to prove to myself that I was better. Back to what I used to be.

But I will never go back. Things will always be harder than they once were.

The marathon, full of people and cheering and electrolyte drinks, it ended up just being another run. Another moment with only myself and the steady beat.

Maybe I didn’t run for the marathon. For a comeback or recognition or a record of my time.

Maybe I ran just because I still could.

Maybe, that’s enough.

.

I hear the possibilities, but I don’t hear words

I taste them on my tongue

and when I bite into strawberries . there are only red drapes coloring my mind

.

I watch with a heavy heart

as people go around

throwing care to the wind,

laughing around as they please.

Don’t they know

that they’re being merciless?

That they’re inflicting pain

on my already burdened heart?

I envy their smiles,

their friendships, their lives.

Sadly, they’re not to blame.

I’m basically an onlooker to them.

Studying my life,

I question myself, ‘Why am I so alone?’

‘What’s so bad about me?’

‘Why can’t I make this work?’

Dear heavens, I try!

Each time I try to encourage a smile,

it comes out as a twisted grimace.

Nothing more, nothing less.

But finally, I’m part of something, a group maybe.

Telling myself it’s the start

of a better life for myself,

it only ends up going in the opposite direction.

As I sit among them,

my eagerness slowly diminishes.

It just basically feels like

I’m practically invisible.

I’ve tried to look on the bright side,

but faced the even darker side.

I’ve tried to hold in my tears,

but there’s no use, so I let them go.

Either way, I’ll still be hopeful,

because there are still many days ahead.

But I sincerely hope,

that I can find the strength to wait until then.

The intense dance-off with the striped flamingos and pink zebras suddenly stopped when the ice king came and started attacking us with his icy rays. Abandoning my fellow party animals, I ran all the way to what looked like my fortress, and stumbled in. Glad to be away from the ice king, I sighed in relief only to crack up when I thought of how the winged fishes stole the show earlier in the night. “Nick? Nick, is that you?!” Oh no, the ice king found me! But surprisingly, the floral queen came out. “Your Majesty!” I exclaimed while doing a sweeping bow. “You’ve been drinking again,” I heard her mutter. I heard the sound of footsteps increasing, and I looked up to find no trace of the floral queen. Instead, the sea ostrich was paddling towards me. A wave of fear washed over me and, in my haze, I pushed and kicked at the sea ostrich. At the time, that’s all I saw it as— defending myself from the sea ostrich. Eager to be safely away from the evil doer, I ran into the sanctuary of my room. The next morning, I was embraced by a killer hangover and a confused yet slightly frightened mother—I couldn’t understand why she was frightened.

***

The next time, my feathered and furred friends decided to sit out on me, and I was left to survive the wild on my own. After downing a few drinks, I decided to call it a night. As I made my way out, I found myself cornered by three buff guys. The one in the middle spoke up, “You got guts man, wandering into marked territory.” Sneering, he continued, “I seen your kind before, looking all innocent, and just wanting to ‘party’ when you’re actually here to scout down the area, and report back to the hounds.” Confused by what he was saying, my mind still in a drunken haze, I raised my hands up in surrender as I spoke, “Woah! I’m not here to cause any trouble alright? A friend just introduced me to this place; nothing more, nothing—” I was cut off by a hard punch to the jaw before I could finish talking. Stumbling backwards, I quickly dodged another hit before it could make contact. Angered by my actions, they all charged at me, but it seemed like fate was on my side when somebody from the inside shouted, “POLICE!” With one last gut-wrenching punch, they left me and fled with the others into the night.

Forcing my head to clear, I took off running in the direction I had come in. Making my way towards the house, I unlocked the door and trudged in, only to face my mother’s fuming form. “It’s one in the morning Nick! Couldn’t you be a bit more responsible? You still have school and—” I looked up when she had stopped talking to see her eyeing the nasty bruise that had formed on my jaw. “What in the world happened to you?” she shrieked. “What were you doing?” Not in the mood for her antics, I tried to brush past her but she stood in front of me. “Can we not do this now? I’m tired.” I said frustratedly. “We’ll do this when I want to, and I say now!” She countered back. “Well I don’t okay? So just get out off my face!” I shouted back. It was the alcohol talking, not me. “Are you out of your—” Before she could finish, I pushed her out of my way to go, but I turned back when I heard the sickening crack her back made when it came in contact with the marble top counter. At that, I began to panic. ‘You’re your father’s son’, a voice said tauntingly to me in my head. Stepping back in horror when I heard my mother scream, and watching as her eyes welled up with tears, I ran out of the house and into the night.

***

It was getting harder and harder to control myself. I apologized each time of course, but saying ‘sorry’ just doesn’t do justice. I tried avoiding drinking, but each time I closed my eyes and saw the deranged demon that called himself a father, I couldn’t hold myself back. Most times, I went all out.

Everything spiralled out of control when one day, I heard distressing news—I was going to be a father. Overwhelmed, I ran all the way home. Wheezing as I ran into the house, I came face to face with my mother. Even after all I had done, she never gave up and fought till her very last breath. Running a hand through my hair agitatedly, not in the mood for a screaming match, I side-stepped her and started towards my room. “Nicholas! Get back here right now!” she screamed. “I can’t right now mum, I just can’t,” I told her. Her voice shaky, she replied, “What has gotten into you Nick? I’m trying and all you’re doing is just acting out how you want to. I’m trying here, I really am. I don’t want to you to end up like—” She was already bawling when I cut her off. “Shut up! I just heard I’m going to be a father, mum! I know you’re trying, but you’re the least of my problems right now,” I replied back, my tone matching hers. She was frozen with shock by the time I had finished talking. Suddenly, she started breathing rapidly, and next thing I knew, her body hit the floor, a harsh sound emanating from where her head landed on the floor. Once I had come out of my shock, I hastily called the paramedics, and she was taken to the nearest hospital.

She was pronounced dead the following morning. I couldn’t even bring myself to attend the funeral. It was all my fault. I thought that over and over again several times, and indeed it was.

***

My two months of rehabilitation were finally over. I checked myself into the centre two months after mother’s funeral. After that, I devoted myself to working, day and night, to support my child, and the mother. I decided I was going to be a changed person. Everything my father was not, and everything my mother wanted me to be. I owed her that much at the very least.

***

The day the hospital had called saying my wife was going into labour, I drove at lightning speed from my workplace to get there on time. Anya and I had put our initial differences aside, and decided to make it work for the baby, so, we got married.

A lot of agonizing hours later, a nurse appeared in my line of sight. How I wished my mother was here with me. As she came closer, my heart dropped of my chest at her dejected expression. With sad eyes, she regretfully told me my child was still-born. My face blanched, and my heart broke. I hurried inside to meet my wife, but I was told she was put to sleep because the shock was too much, and her body was in a frail condition. Downcast, I trudged home feeling miserable and empty. The next morning, the hospital called to tell me my wife had died from too much blood loss. I nearly lost it.

Fighting the urge to just end it all, I carted my body to the heavy metal gates I had not seen for a while, and followed the path which was engraved in my brain. Making my way to my mother’s grave stone, my feet immediately gave out, and my knees hit the ground with a heavy thump. And like a new-born child, I wept my heart out till I completely gave out.

“Thank you for your time and patience. Make sure to work on those exercises, and please, don’t be late next time.” If there will be a next time, I wanted to add. Warily, I watched as the skittish bloke bounded out of the room with one last over-enthusiastic farewell.

Heaving a loud sigh, I ran a hand down my bleary face. I can’t take this anymore. One more unhinged character and I think I’m really going to gouge my eyes out. Seeing as I was almost done with the day, I gathered up my papers and began to arrange them in my file cabinet.

As I was sorting out the last of the batch, I heard a ‘beep’ which I knew was for an e-mail. Please let it not be what I think it is. Begrudgingly, I trudged to my computer and opened the e-mail. I wasn’t even shocked at all this time as I read the message from the company. Of course, since when have fate and I ever been on good terms. I had one last patient for the day.

‘Tyler Evers; Age: 11’

That’s all? Just how am I supposed to work with this? Applying for the special care unit had proven to be one of the greatest mistakes I had ever made. I had assumed people would have been ‘cured’ of their problems so I wouldn't have to receive patients but as it turned out, I was gravely wrong.

Letting out a long breath, I began to prepare for the patient just as I heard a knock. “Come in,” I said. A pale brown-haired boy walked in and sat himself on my black couch without even as much as a greeting. I hope this goes fast.

“Hurry, I don’t have all day you know.” Perplexed, I looked around to find the source of the voice and my gaze landed on the boy who was looking at me with curious and expectant eyes. Did he just—

“Yes, I did, now come sit.” I just stared at the boy in front me in shock and then to the window. I should be able to get to there in three strides and quickly jump out.

“Oh, you’re too kind mister,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he spoke. “Please put aside your suicidal thoughts and let’s begin the session.”

Too stunned to speak, I sat down in my seat and regarded the boy with curious eyes. He simply shot me a wide innocent smile and I quickly composed myself. The quicker the better.

“Why are you here?” I asked in what I hoped was a steady voice. I think it was.

“It was don’t worry,” he said. At this point, I could only stare at him with a look of disbelief plastered on my face. “To answer your question, I was sent here. Now Mr.—”

“Payne,” I quickly said.

He just laughed. “I already knew. Anyway, Mr. Payne, why are you here?” He asked.

I stared at him confused. “What?” I questioned.

“And you’re supposed to be a therapist?” he asked coolly with a raised eyebrow.

“O-of course, I am,” I sputtered out quickly.

“So, answer the question, why are you here?” He tried again.

“I work here,” I replied.

Rolling his eyes and sighing, his gaze met mine again. “It’s obvious you work here. Okay, what did you want to grow up to be when you were younger?” He asked.

Curious to know what he was getting at, I answered. “An astronaut.”

Nodding his head, seemingly satisfied with my answer, he continued. “Why?”

“I’ve always had a fascination with the stars and the other heavenly bodies,” I answered, my mind in a jumbled mess.

“Interesting,” he noted. “Well, why didn’t you become one?” he asked. Is this an interrogation? His laugh brought me out of my stupor.

“What?” I asked.

“I asked you why you didn’t follow your dreams and become an astronaut, aside from the fact you had some ‘family issues’,” he said doing air quotes with his fingers when he said family issues.

The word flabbergasted would not even be close to describing how I felt in that moment. “How did you know that?” I asked warily.

He just shrugged. “Eh, I have my ways. Now, you’re avoiding my question.” Was I? “Why didn’t you follow your dreams?” He asked again.

Too stumped to actually comprehend anything again, I found myself responding. “I guess it’s because I dropped out from college, that’s why.”

“Interesting,” he responded. “Your familial problems or whatever were that bad?”

My head bobbed up and down on its own accord. “Yeah, I guess, it was very tough time and I needed to find a way to support my family.”

“Alright, but what made you think that was your responsibility? Is an eleven-year-old really asking me this? You’re still young, twenty-six I reckon,” he said. At that, my jaw dropped. He probably took a lucky guess, yeah that’s it. A very lucky guess.

“Think what you wanna,” I heard him mutter. “Answer the question,” he said again.

“I just felt responsible since I was the eldest son,” I found myself replying.

“Hmm, okay then,” he said while rubbing his chin. “What’s stopping you from achieving that dream now?

“I need money,” I replied immediately.

Nodding his head as though he was noting something to himself, he spoke again, “Why didn’t you try going back to school and looking for a side job at the very least? It’s not your fault your family is like this, so why let your own dreams be sacrificed?” he asked boldly.

I actually found myself pondering upon his words. “Well, honestly, that thought never came to me. I thought I had to be completely devoted to work to help them.” I responded truthfully.

“So, you used your psychology degree from your first year to get this job,” he said nodding his head in understanding. I can’t find it in me to understand him anymore. “Well, I’m glad we made progress. Think about what we discussed today alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With those last words and a curt wave, he was out of the room. I found myself pondering over the whole interaction. Wow! How did I never think of this before? With a new found determination and a set mind, I began to pack up all my things. Goodbye haunting therapy sessions. Hello Antarctica!

(an autobiography in rhyming quatrains)

I’ve learned many lessons in my fifty plus years;

been deeply in love, and I’ve shed many tears.

I've seen joyous beginnings and grief-stricken ends

as I gained and lost loved ones, both family and friends.

One truth I discovered, while making my way,

was that I held the power, at the end of the day—

I could choose my reactions, either happy or sad,

or thankful, or jealous, or quiet, or mad.

At times this was easy, when faith was my guide

being thankful was something that glowed deep inside.

Yet many were times, if the truth would be known,

that my doubt, pain, and fear left me cold and alone.

Like on that fall day, just a few years ago,

when a pain in my chest and my arm laid me low...

‘myocardial infarction’ was what the doc said

as he put in a stent, without which I’d be dead.

Less than a year later, my wife came to me

after a lifetime together, now in year thirty-three

with five kids and seven grand-kids. I thought we were set

until she told me the words that I’ll never forget.

“We got married too young; I never explored

a life on my own...” and she walked out the door.

With no wife and no job, I was angry and hurt,

so I fell to my knees and I prayed in the dirt.

I cried, “Why God? Why? Am I really so bad?”

but He gave me no answer. I was way beyond mad—

I was angry with Him, even more with my wife,

but mostly with ME, for I’d messed up my life.

I hit the last rung, so I simply let go...

where my life would take me, I just didn’t know;

but I opened my heart, and I looked for a clue,

and found faith that He would show me what to do.

I scrolled social media in a pitiful daze,

and I froze, when my screen displayed one single phrase;

Black letters on off-white, pierced me to the core:

“BE BITTER OR BETTER... the choice is all yours.”

With the image were comments, and the very first one

said “Forgiveness brings healing, like light from the sun.”

In my soul, a strong paradigm shifted that day,

and I suddenly knew, it would all be okay.

I reached out to my wife, with forgiveness in mind,

but the voice on her phone was a much different kind.

I knew him of course, for he once was my friend...

yet despite all of this, my new smile didn’t bend.

I wished them both well... and I really do hope

that wherever life takes them together, they’ll cope.

My next healing prayer was my “Sorry” to God,

for I knew that he’d touched me, with a wink and a nod.

Then last but not least, I focused within

and I forgave myself, for mistakes and for sins.

I found the true ME hiding there, just inside,

when I looked with forgiveness, past anger and pride.

A boy’s hopes were still there, in the heart of the man,

as were the dreams I had buried in work, bills, and plans.

Reignited, my passion for writing then grew,

and I published a novel, and some poetry too.

Now I get to craft books for a living each day,

and dream sweetly at night, without hate in my way.

My new life isn’t perfect—at times fate’s still unkind—

but I’m better, not bitter... and that suits me just fine!

© 2019 - dustygrein

I’m still not sure what went wrong; in fact, I don’t remember much about last night at all. I’d like to blame God, or fate, or just bad damn luck; but I reckon the fault might lie somewheres closer to home.

The train from Guaymas to Nogales was supposedly carryin’ a shipment of gold—a tribute from the new Mexican Republic to the Governor of Arizona, or some such political nonsense. Me and the boys, hell we didn’t care about nothin’ but gettin' our hands on all that loot, and high-tailin' it south. We planned on sittin’ on some sunny beach where the gold could be spent, the margaritas was sweet, and the senoritas was plentiful.

Bart Jonas and his cousin Dillon got the schedule off'n a Southern Pacific station master over at Tombstone, before they shot him and left his body for the buzzards. The train was supposedly bein’ guarded by a dozen rurales and at least one Mexican Federale, travelin’ north with the gold. From what the boys heard, the third passenger car was actually converted to an armored transport for the safe.

The problems started when we derailed the damn train. Jim Bernard was our powder monkey, and he’d blown the tracks just north of Cibuta. The train derailed alright, but it was goin' faster than we thought, and it piled up end-over-end out there in the desert, among the sage and saguaros.

The Federale was killed outright, but the rurales turned out to be trained soldiers from the Mexican army, and they was a tough bunch of bastards. After a gunfight that seemed to last forever, me and Bart was the only two left standin’. Dillon and old Jim were layin’ dead in the dirt, and all the Mexicans was either shot or they run off.

We found the safe layin’ on its side, all banged up and dented. What with Jim bein’ dead and all, it took over an hour for Bart to finally blast the hinges off of it, and he almost lost his left hand in the process. Once it was opened, it turned out the safe was stuffed plumb near full of 50 peso gold coins. We loaded our bags and dragged 'em back to the horses we’d left tied-off out in the hills; we mounted up and rode as hard as we could for the coast.

That was day before yesterday.

We rode them horses damn near into the dirt, and finally finished up in a little seaside fishin’ town as the sun was comin’ up. We found us an empty barn, and racked out.

Bart woke me near sundown, and we found our way to a little cantina near the wharf.

Wasn’t hardly nobody there, 'cept a grizzled old barkeep, and an ugly painted-up senora who didn’t speak no English. I told Bart he should just pay with some of the copper pennies we had been savin’ but he had to go and be a big shot. He flipped one of them big gold coins on the bar, and the keep’s eyes damn near jumped outta his head. We each grabbed a bottle of tequila and made our way over to the table where the whore was keepin’ house. I do recall she got a little prettier with each drink, but that’s about all I remember.

All I'd wanted was to head south, get my feet up, and live like a king, or at least a landed gentleman. That was before I woke up in this damn cell. Now my head is poundin’ and I’m alone in this dirty cage. I looked out the barred window a while ago, and I saw someone hanging by the neck from a scaffold. I think it’s Bart, but I can’t tell for sure.

I hope, if they’re comin’ for me next, they at least get a fresh rope.

Twenty minutes.

Hard to believe only twenty minutes ago my life was normal. Tuesday morning sunshine ruled the morning and the sun sparkled off the Manhattan skyline below my window.

That was before the plane hit.

I saw it happen. I was dumbfounded; I sat at my desk and just watched it get bigger and bigger. I started to say “That is wrong,” but before I could get the words out, it flew into the building, directly below me. WHAM! At least twenty floors down. We all felt the impact, and the fireball that rolled past the windows was so hot that many of them cracked.

We tried to find a way out, but the stairwells were full of smoke and flames. The air grew thick and acrid, and the smell of burning rubber, plastic and flesh was enough to make us all gag. William threw a chair through the window. The fresh air tasted good, but the smoke became a chimney roaring past us. The people below looked very small as we stood on the narrow ledge.

“I can’t burn, man.” That’s all William said to me before he jumped. I wonder what he thought about as he fell. I’ve had time to think a lot; ninety-eight floors is a long, long way down.

I see the ground now, coming up fast.

I love you Mom.

I hope it doesn't—