There was a slight distortion that left my hand like a tiny heatwave. Nothing happened. SWAT guy smiled and pulled the trigger. There was an ear shattering crack and the gun exploded. A flare ejected out the side closest to SWAT guy’s arm, detonating. A squib. He shrieked and fell, slapping at the growing flames on his shredded arm.

I gawked at the scene. Holy shit. Either the rifle had malfunctioned on its own, or something else had tipped the scales. Probability spiral…

I staggered to the side, gasping. It felt like I'd run two marathons, back to back. Whatever it was, it hadn't come free. Still, it would only be a matter of seconds before the SWAT guy recovered. He'd pull his sidearm and the small victory I’d managed would be wasted. I took off running, fighting exhaustion as his swearing followed me, his screams of pain echoing off the concrete ceiling of the garage.

/////

My paranoia started whispering a few blocks from our apartment. What if they'd identified me from earlier footage? What if they were waiting for me?

I slipped into a nearby Waffle House with a view of the east apartment entrance and took a seat at a booth. My leg bounced uncontrollably and I had a hard time focusing on anything. My escape had been too easy. Inconsistencies in the events came into focus that had been disguised in a wash of adrenaline.

I'd been so confident I knew which way the cameras were pointing. Why? Where had that surety come from? The hospital cameras were encased in a black orb. I was losing it. Life wasn't a Marvel movie. People didn't develop powers from meteors. The mounted TV flickered as the channel was changed, giving a report of shots fired at Baylor hospital. Apparently, the cops had continued making their rounds. But the news was reporting it as a possible active shooter situation. I cocked my head. That didn't make any sense. Normally, the news was informed on this sort of thing. The police must have been on an information blackout.

“Hon? I said, what can I get you?”

I jumped, swiveling in my seat to face a waitress who couldn't be bothered to tie her apron.

“Coffee.” Then, after a second. “Decaf.” No need to be any jumpier than I already felt.

“Just the coffee.” Statement, not a question. I was analyzing the waitress’s tone, looking for tells. More paranoia. I needed to get home so I could take my meds. “You okay hon?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Lot on my mind.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Last few days have been rough on all of us. I'll get that coffee.”

The wording stuck with me long after she'd left. Last few days? Of course. This wasn't the day of the impact. Few. What did few mean? At least two, probably three. I watched the news, waiting for a date stamped report. March 22nd, 2024. Okay. Two days. What the SWAT guy said made more sense now, at least in terms of timeline.

Know how many friends I've lost today?

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The aroma of coffee filled my nose. I could feel the waitress's shadow lingering before she left me to my drink. My stomach twisted.

“For the second day in a row, police and federal authorities have yet to explain the blockades spanning state lines.”

My eyes shot open. The scene on the TV rotated between various major highways. Checkpoints backed up traffic indefinitely as a deluge of squad cars and SUVs served as hastily erected barriers blocking off roadways. There was a shot of thousands of people pressed together at DFW airport, with a slow pan to a nearby display that read, “All departures suspended indefinitely.”

The hits kept coming. We were locked in. And the violet notification light was still hanging in my vision like a stuck pixel.

/////

I eased the apartment door shut. The hinges squealed at the last moment, giving me away. Small footsteps pattered as Iris swung out from the kitchen, small hand clinging to the dividing wall to prevent her socked feet from slipping on the hardwood floor as she leveraged herself towards me.

Iris was thirteen, but her outfits always made her look much younger. A simple denim jumper covered a white cloth shirt. Her blonde hair was cropped short, tufts of it frizzed out over too-long ears. She tackled me in a tight hug. I saw Ellison peek out from the hallway and give me a tentative wave. He’d gotten the best of our parents’ features. Our father’s electric blue eyes and our mother’s wavy chestnut hair.

“Hey Ellis.”

“Where have you been?” Ellison asked. There was a notable strain in his voice.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“Dark orange. More sandstone than clay. Where have you been?”

“Hospital.” When his eyes widened, I hurried on before he could assume the worst. “Relax. Got out before they got my information.”

“Are you hurt?” Iris watched my lips intently as she finished the sign, closed hands with two index fingers pointed at each other.

“I’m fine.” I said, signing and speaking out loud. “Just bumps and bruises.” And broken ribs that didn’t hurt and a dislocated shoulder that was somehow fully functional. But that was filed under the category of things I didn’t want to think too closely about. “You guys okay?”

Iris nodded.

“More disturbed than anything else. Mom called us both into the living room onto the couch with her and held onto us, then started crying uncontrollably.”

I winced. “Sorry I wasn’t here. How long has she been orange?” I asked.

”Since the meteor.” Iris signed, her movements emphatic.

“She feed you guys?”

“We’re fine. We made sandwiches.” Ellison answered before Iris could sign.

Irritation flooded me and I looked towards the end of the hallway. Really? I was gone for two days and she couldn’t be bothered to reheat a lasagna? Of course she couldn’t. What was I thinking?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I stalked towards the hallway and Iris clung onto my arm, slowing me, sliding a foot across the ground.

”Don’t make it worse.”

I knew she was right. In that moment, though, right and wrong didn’t matter. I felt so trapped, so damn strangled by this place. So, I stood and seethed. I reached up slowly to my forehead, feeling the spot on my forehead and finding the vein standing out on my skin.

Shit. My meds.

“Okay,” I said finally, and Iris released me. “I need to take some time. Do either of you need anything?”

“Not right at this minute. Got any money?” Ellison watched me knowingly, dark locks swinging across his forehead. “I was washing Mr. Oliver’s truck this morning—”

“El, you know I don’t like you working for him.”

Ellison rolled his eyes. “Not the point.”

“I’m serious. He’s the landlord, and he already tried to accuse you of stealing change from his car.” To say nothing of the fact that Ellison probably did. But the theft didn’t match the man’s explosive reaction and threats of eviction that terrified us for weeks. “Wait, what do you need money for?”

“If you’d let me finish, I would have told you by now,” Ellison snapped. “Oliver’s paying me tomorrow when he has cash on hand—“

“Never work without knowing when you’ll be paid—“

“I did know. He said it upfront. But the point is a bunch of neighbors saw me washing his car. A whole bunch. The dust from that thing,” Ellison held up a fist and splayed his fingers, pantomiming the explosion. “Got everywhere and it’s thick. Everyone needs their car cleaned, and Tommy’s down the street is price gouging. So, the opportunity is there, but I don’t have the capital for it.”

I did my best to ignore the lingo that undoubtedly stemmed from our mother. “What about the twenty I gave you two weeks ago?”

“Snacks. But most of it went to Iris’s new backpack.”

Fuck. I’d forgotten. Iris was mostly homeschooled due to inadequate support for deaf children in the local public school and bullying, but she was in a self-study group with other deaf children. As it turned out, sharing the same disability didn’t count much for common ground, as Iris’s backpack had been torn off her shoulders by an older boy and summarily tossed in a storm drain.

“How much do you need?”

“Twenty-five if you have it.”

I snorted. “What, are you outsourcing?”

“I need a jug and the Optimum is forty and tax.”

“If you’re going for quantity just buy the Megs. It’s half that. And it’s not like any of our neighbors are getting valet parking. You’re not waxing and detailing. Just clean the dust off their beaters.”

“Recurring business be damned.” Ellison sighed.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I shot back. Three dollars would tide him over. Ellison always lowballed what he actually had. I opened my wallet and stopped, finding it empty. A low groan escaped me.

“What?”

“I bankrupted myself for shitty Girl Scout cookies.”

“Excuse me?” Ellison repeated again, voice monotone.

“Sue me, the world was ending.”

Iris shifted so she was in both of our vision. “Let me help.”

“Do... you have it?” Ellison asked uncomfortably.

“I’ll break open November,” Iris signed. Her eyes were bright, as if she was happy to offer a solution.

“No,” Ellison said immediately.

I shared an uncomfortable look with Ellison and turned back to Iris. “You just broke October to get the water turned back on.”

“That was months ago.”

Barely two months. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. Iris had a thing for cute porcelain piggy-banks, a relic of the past that had made a semi-ironic return in recent years. Iris’s first bank had been a Frosty the Snowman lookalike she named January. I remembered October as fragments of a smiling jack-o-lantern, shattered amongst currency on the floor. My mother’s goal had been to use the device to teach Iris the importance of saving, while making it difficult to “borrow” those savings back. Yeah. It hadn’t exactly worked out that way.

I hated moments like this. I crouched down to her level. “Okay. If Ellison’s windfall is as big as he’s making it out to be, he’ll pay you back. If for some reason it doesn’t and he can’t, I will. You can’t keep doing this kiddo.” My chest tightened when she shook her head, indicating she didn’t need to be paid back.

As much as I disliked my mother, there was no question we were cut from the same cloth, as was Ellison. We were mercenaries of a modern age, money and survival our only objectives. But Iris was different. Iris was the best of us.

“It won’t take long, Iris. I’ll have it back to you by the end of the day.” Ellison said. But I could hear the regret in his voice.

I stood back, conflicted, looking between my sister and brother. I was proud of them. But I hated that our discussions were closer to business meetings. I hated that they had to operate like this.

A chill went through me. If I died in the parking garage, would they be breaking November for me? Every dollar Ellison earned today going towards cremation, funeral costs? And what would the rest of their lives look like after my death gave mother an excuse to dive even deeper into the well? More desperation, fueled by white bread sandwiches and snack packs. It was exactly why I couldn’t commit to fucking off to Berkeley. Not that I even could now.

Trapped. And you’ll always be trapped.

The ceiling lowered. Just a slight, subtle shift but a clear early warning sign. I thanked Iris and walked hurriedly to my room. Meds. I needed my meds. I threw open the door. My bed was unmade the way I’d left it. A layer of dust on my dresser stood out to me in glaring detail. The ceiling felt even lower, threatening now, as if it might descend and crush me.

I grabbed a cluster of orange white-capped bottles and shook them into my unsteady hands. I tossed the pills back, doubling a few of the doses to make up for the time I’d spent unmedicated in the hospital. Then I sat down on my bed with my hands on my knees and waited.

It was too late. Everything was catching up to me. The meteor. The close call in the hospital. The barricades. My mother’s condition. Ellison. Iris. College. Trapped.

Can’t breathe.

I could feel the ceiling just above my head now. As much as I knew it hadn’t moved, it felt like if I straightened up from my slouch my head would hit it. And I knew, if I looked up to check, I’d see patterns in the striations. Gape-mouthed faces staring out from the plaster, leering, laughing, dying.

It’s just the stress. I repeated it over and over in my mind, trying to force the mantra to take root. You’re having an anxiety attack.

There were a million things I should have been doing. Checking with Dunkin's to make sure I still had a job. Contacting the numbers on Nate’s tip sheet. Deciding what I needed to do about the very real possibility that I was finally cracking under the pressure and my mental health had finally come back to finish the job.

It didn’t matter. I was too far gone. There was only one solution when it got this bad.

I lowered to the floor, careful not to look at the ceiling, and slid myself under the bed. My hands closed around the metal slats that lined the frame vertically, my fingers wiggling between bar and mattress. It was a tight fit, too tight to turn my head in any direction other than sideways, staring beneath my simple brown comforter towards the door.

And yeah, I know how this looks. A child in everything but name. I don’t blame you if you judge me for it. I judge me for it. At this point you’re probably wondering if I’m even who I claim to be. If I’m an imposter. But everything you’ve heard is true.

This is how it started.

This is who I was.

I considered the blinking notification in the bottom right for what felt like hours before finally focusing on it.

The curiosity was killing me. And now that I had time to think, there were really only two possibilities. Either what I’d experienced at the hospital was real, or I’d lost it completely. If I was losing my mind, it was far gone enough that entertaining the delusion didn’t really matter.

The window expanded and the first notification scrolled.