I was in bed when the bombs dropped. Lying there, in the unlit room, with the curtains drawn, there was a faint whistle from outside the window. The whistle howls, getting louder and louder. Sounds like fireworks, Chinese fireworks that spin as they spread sparks. And then a bang. The house is swaying, dancing. Like the old time cartoons, before Mickey could speak, before color, where everything danced. That is how the house dances. The sound is unmistakable. Death and destruction. It rocks my soul. My bones are scared of what happened. I fight the urge to vomit. Getting out of bed, I cuss myself.

Why had I let Nancy take the baby? I could have watched her today. I wasn't that bad. I didn't think of the aftershock. When it comes, I'm not ready. I'm trying to put my sweats on to go outside and see what I could see. Then it comes. The house groans and glass shatters. That stupid double window in our room, which has always been a pain to clean, explodes inwards from the aftershock; from the wave of the nuclear blast that comes seconds after the bomb hits. It explodes on me while I am putting on sweats, while my hands are around my knees working the sweats up, so I can't guard my face. The shock launches me against the dresser. Something cracks. The glass flies around me and in me like tiny bullets. Blood begins to flow above my eye. On the ground, after the shock, I feel to see what is wrong. A larger piece, about the size of a half dollar, sits in my forehead, touching the bone. I pull it out--didn't hurt as bad as I thought.

Baby, I think. Find the baby, and then find Nancy. I hate whatever happens. I hate the sickness, how it is eating my brain, how it has numbered my days. I hate that I let Nancy take the baby to Grandma's house. I should have watched her. I'm not that bad today. And now this, now a bomb. Now a whistling bomb has landed somewhere, making the house dance and tearing up my face. I grab a towel from the bathroom and look in the mirror. Besides the gash in my forehead, there are five other smaller cuts, not bleeding as badly. I try to clean them up, but they won't stop bleeding. I use some Sesame Street band aids. Why do we have those? The baby doesn't care. Karla is only one.

Running downstairs, I look at the T.V. Flip it on. There is yelling outside, panicked screaming. The television is flashing images of a newscaster talking. He's panicked as well. There is video of fire in the sky. The fire is far off. Then the channel breaks up. It goes to snow. There is never television again. Cell phone. I run to it, hoping for a signal. I call Nancy's number, but there's nothing. I call Jon's number, but there's nothing. Jon's is only a mile and a half away. I'll go quickly, get Karla, and get Nancy.

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Outside has changed, as if the first act of the play is over. The first act being everything everyone has ever known. The first thing that hits me is the sound. Car horns rhythmically beeping, alarms going off, some type of emergency broadcast warning, and faint screams peppering it all. The car is a mess. There is as mailbox stuck through the passenger window, lodged between the column and the chair. I try to dislodge it, when somebody touches me, grabs me from behind. Mara.

I don't know Mara, or Steve. We've been their neighbor for over 7 years, and I can count the amount of times I have spoken to them on my hand. She's pale, in shock. Mara, what is it? He's pinned down real bad. It's real bad. She repeats this while staring through me, and not at me. Show me. Let's help him. He's going to be fine.

I say this, because it is what you a re supposed to say. Because to say anything else would be cruel, and if you are wrong, the person isn't going to remember that you are wrong. If you are right, the person remembers you were right, and gave comfort. She turns and scuttles back to her house. I've never been to their house. I've never asked to borrow anything from Steve and Mara, nor have they us. The inside of the house looks ransacked. There is a book shelf sprawled on the floor, littered with detective novels which surround it in a semi-circle.

I look through the living room. At first, it's just Steve, sitting in a recliner in front of the T.V. But when I look closer, I see the problem. A tree, a beautiful young Live Oak, has crashed through the sliding windows, and one large limb pierces his thigh to the chair, pins it to the chair. Mara stops. She can't go closer. I trot over. He's out but breathing, in his tank top, Bermuda cargo shorts with no socks. The blood is bad. There is more blood than I have ever seen in my life. A fountain of it sprays. I don't know how long this has been, but he is either dead or dying, unless the tree can be pulled out. The tree rests through the window, as if taking a break. I can't tell how far the limb has gone through. I have to pull.