Falling

I first saw her after I boarded the plane. We sat in the back, so I could see steady stream of passengers coming down the aisle and when I saw her making her way to me, carefully negotiating the narrow space between the seats, she took my breath away. She looked to be in her twenties and was with her mother, I think. I watched her put both of their pieces of luggage in the overhead compartment, tiptoeing to reach.

She has lightly curled fair golden hair that runs behind her ears and down to her shoulders. Her creamy white skin was radiant. A pert nose on which a pair of wire rimmed glasses were perched belonged to a face with clean and subdued, but angelic features. She had the small, slender body of someone who was comfortable with herself. But the it may be her neck that I was the most focused on, its white, soft skin had small hint of pink. I watched it curve from her jawline down to her collarbone. I could tell she was good, kind person from the way she moved, from the way she spoke to her mother, from the way she carried herself. It's a wonder that I've never imagine beauty this way in my head, the way this girl looked, but that's what she was. It is with no qualifier or reservation that I say that I think she was the most beautiful-not just pretty or cute, but beautiful-person I've ever laid my eyes on.

She sat across from me and I stole glances as often as I could. I watched her thumb through her copy of "Nocturnes" by Kazuo Ishiguro. I tried to see what she was watching on the entertainment screen on the headrest of the seat in front of hers if only to see if we had the same taste in movies. The angle wasn't right and I still don't know what she was watching. When she asked the flight attendant for an adapter for the headphones, I detected an Irish accent, a faint one so pleasing my ears that I wish I had the nerve to talk to her so I could hear it some more. She dropped a pen a couple of times and I reached down to pick it up so that maybe she would look at me and say thank you, but she was quicker to reach both times, so I would pull back before making the attempt because it looked like I was too eager.

I caught her eye once when I turned and saw her looking straight at me. She turned away immediately and I wonder if she was looking at me or the view out my window. The view out my window probably. Or maybe she saw me in the periphery staring at her throughout the flight and wanted to see who this stranger was.

Our plane ride was short, only an hour--fine on most days but felt incredibly short on that day. Couldn't they have a storm, or a freak blizzard in August that would blanket the runway, causing us to circle for another half an hour? Would that be too much to ask?

After we landed, I struggled to catch a glimpse of her as she made her way through the gate. I saw her again collecting luggage off the carousel in the baggage collection area. And then she was gone, disappearing into New York through the revolving doors.

It is now five days later and I can't stop thinking of her. But the image I have her is dissolving. I still know that feeling that I felt when I saw her walking toward me down the aisle on the plane. I remember the idea of how stunning she was. But the details are disappearing. When I close my eyes, I struggle to combine all my memories into one distinguishable image. I grasp for the disparate visions: the way her glasses rested on her delicate nose, the sight of her bare arm when she removed her fleece, the motion of her bending and putting her passport into her bag, the color of her hair. I fear that they will not last for long because even with the lights off and sounds muted, I can no longer remember how exactly she was beautiful, only that she was and I will never see her again.

Little Known Inaccurate Facts About Matt

Matt steals candy from children because they're easy targets.

Matt was the original inspiration for "MILF," as in "Matt I'd Like to ...."

Matt fights crime from 11:30 PM to 11:45 PM each night. His signature move is the atomic crotch punch.

Matt strips under the pseudonym, Attorney General. His tag line is "Liar, liar. His pants are on... FIRE!!!!"

Matt traveled back in time and roundhouse kicked Arnold Schwarzenneger in the throat as a child, resulting in a lifelong speech impediment which is commonly mistaken for an Austrian accent.

Matt thinks Chuck Norris is a mama's boy.

Matt brought sexy back, so Timberlake can suck on it.

Matt is friends with JLo and can confirm that she is indeed from the block.

Matt finished the NYC marathon in under two hours but was disqualified for using Heelys.

Matt was trained by Navy SEALs and can kill with virtually any implement, even with Facebook messages.

Matt was swallowed by a whale and found his long lost father inside in a boat.

Matt drops it like it's hot.

Matt lost a pinky toe in a freak hunting accident with Dick Cheney, the details of which are a matter of national security.

Matt rode on a steamship on a long ocean voyage, where he met and fell in love with a young woman, drew her naked, made hot steamy PG-13 love in a car, but was eventually killed when they were struck by an iceberg and he sank into the icy abyss, slipping from his beloved's fingertips, all the while enduring a Celine Dion pop ballad.

Matt says never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you. Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.

Matt beat Michael Phelps soundly in men's solo synchronized swimming.

Matt is so dope, he fails random drug screenings.

Matt operates a brothel for koalas called Marsupial Menagerie.

Matt is so fresh, he gets baked twice daily.

Matt once joined a gang, but quit when he discovered what gangbangers actually did.

Matt called Betty White a bitch to her face and has the scars to show for it.

Matt occasionally walks with a limp and goes by the name of Keyser Soze.

Matt is a mysterious smoke monster with anger management issues.

Matt stays green by stealing SUVs for chop shops.

Matt ascended Mount Everest on a sedan chair carried by sherpas.

Matt is a stunt double for one of the sextuplets on "Jon and Kate Plus 8."

Matt asked Mark Paul Gosselaar why he never saw him in Bayside and then pestered him for Kelly Kapowski's phone number.

Matt wholeheartedly asserts that the cocktail, Sex on the Beach, was created by him during his time in Fiji.

Matt vehemently denies that the cocktail, Rusty Nail, is in any way related to the events leading up to an emergency room visit that will never ever be repeated again.

Matt is earning his PhD in mystical eroticism at Hogwarts and has several restraining orders filed against him for its practical applications.

Matt joined an oil rig crew in the Pacific and is still waiting for the call from the President to drill a hole for a nuclear bomb in an asteroid of apocalyptic proportions.

Matt sells sheets of Bounty under the brand name, Shamwow.

Matt showed Crocodile Dundee what a real knife looks like.

Matt steals from the rich and gives to the poor for a small finder's fee.

Matt fathers children for replacement parts.

Matt is the subject of an adoption custody battle between Angelina Jolie and Madonna.

Matt preached responsible contract acquisitions to the New York Knicks and was laughed out of the building.

Matt has so much game that sports writers now compare Kobe and Lebron to him - with no derisive sarcasm whatsoever.

Matt is so def, conventional hearing aids are rendered useless in his presence.

Matt is so raven, he got his own Disney TV movie.

Matt is so phat, he got a "No Trans Fat" tattoo.

Matt taught Obama how to properly execute a terrorist fist jab.

Matt, as Bruce Lee's sifu, taught him the Battle Tourette's technique, wherein an opponent is disoriented, sometimes incapacitated, by a series of whoops and shrieks while he's struck. Matt claims responsibility for Little Dragon's success.

Matt has a helper monkey named Norman who fetches him beer.

Matt auditioned for the Amazing Race but was not accepted because he was deemed "extraordinary," an inherent violation of the producers' guidelines and potentially overshadowing the show's merely amazing programming.

Matt was dubbed the poor man's Sanjaya by Simon Cowell.

Matt thinks he can dance, but not in sequined spandex on television.

Matt was honored with ten gold medals in seven sports at Beijing - a first for any American - at a sidewalk vendor outside Olympic Stadium.

Matt showed up at an Iron Man competition in a red and gold metal suit.

Matt's milkshake brings all the girls to the yard.

Matt is so out of sight that you'll go blind if you stare directly at him.

Matt is an Ebay power seller of zero gravity writing instruments (pencils). He has a lower than desired rating.

Matt traveled around the world in 80 days in Phineas Fogg's luggage.

Matt yells, "Freedom!!!!!" every time he relieves himself in the bathroom... for the entire duration.

Matt is the starting center for his peewee basketball team, The Mighty Mites. He averages 34 rebounds a game.

Matt applied to graduate school but was told he was too cool for school.

Matt's cereal was stolen by a talking rabbit.

Matt hid in Amish country from mob enforcers, but was ultimately found because of his inability to grow a beard. And he's Asian.

Matt costarred in a movie with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson titled "Starsky, Hutch, and Some Chinese Guy." It went direct to DVD.

Matt's one man show, an interpretation of "Free Willy," was poorly reviewed and grossly misunderstood.

Matt became Lindsay Lhhan's AA sponsor, just to prove that he can't succeed at everything.

Matt will play a hip-hop savvy teacher's assistant in "High School Musical 17."

Matt has a Segway for each day of the week.

Matt's competitive streak led him to complete a five day fast in one day.

Matt was exposed as a fraud when he was found lip-syncing to Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" on America's Got Talent.

Matt showed up as a Great White Shark to his junior high school production of "West Side Story" to a crescendo of applause. The atmosphere soured and turned into panic when half the Jets were eaten in a tragic feeding frenzy.

Matt wanted to be Defender of the Universe when he was a child, but that title was already taken by his arch-nemesis, Voltron.

Matt singlehandedly liberated Europe from the Nazis.

Matt was going to appear in the "Fast and the Furious" sequel, but could not get his stock 2003 Honda Civic to drift.

Matt introduced Austin Powers to a shag carpet and can never look at it the same way again.

Matt was on board the little known 4th ship of Columbus, the Shaniqua Jackson.

Matt can turn water into wine, but must immediately turn it back into water again.

Matt was almost sent to rehab, but he said no, no, no.

Matt yelled fire in a crowded theater just to see what would happen.

Matt wrapped detonation cord around a tree in the forest and left a tape recorder nearby to see if it would make a noise when it fell. It did.

Matt once punched a guy while he was eating pizza and Andy Samberg stole the idea for an SNL Digital Short.

Matt has never viewed pornography. Ever.

Matt's misunderstanding of the term "seminal professional" resulted in a very awkward job interview.

Matt runs five miles a day, but only if he ran the day before.

Matt's moves are so sick, the swine flu needs a vaccine for him.

Matt has been directed to never tickle Elmo, no matter how much he's asking for it.

Matt opened a clinic, but found out that playing doctor and actually being a doctor are two different things altogether.

Matt gets frequent flyer miles for flying into the face of danger.

Matt went to a land down under, where women glowed and men plundered.

Matt smells like teen spirit and was ostracized for it.

Matt fell from Grace, but got right back on her.

Matt fishes for compliments in the Dead Sea.

Matt has been known to rock the casbah.

Matt prefers dark meat over white..., ladies.

Five Blood Soaked Tissues

This is how it ends.

Everything will change now, Jennifer thinks. She wiped down the floor some more and tossed the tissues into the wastebasket.

"I told you not to tell anyone," she says to Mark.

Mark doesn't reply because Mark is dead, with a tent spike through his chest.

"Now, you never will."

Early to Rise

Soot mars the sign like a black toothy grin. It is the only part of the store that doesn't resemble a lump of coal. I yawn. It's too early to be up. The coffee doesn't help much. The rising sun reflects off the face of my watch and blinds me momentarily. It's the seventh time I've checked it in ten minutes. Or eight. I'm losing count.

"You look like hell."

The voice belongs to the fire chief, a friend of mine, and just the person I was waiting for.

"Hi Roger. You all done in there?" I ask.

"Yeah. We should have all of it. Just watch your step. Everything's falling apart."

"Know where the fire started?"

"Looks like the kitchen."

"Accelerant?"

He pauses to think, wipes smoky grit from his face so that it leaves a streak.

"Probably. For it get so big so fast? Yeah, I'd say so."

We say our goodbyes. He asks me if I want to get a drink tonight and I say I will if I can still stand up then. He thinks this is a joke, slaps me on the back, and I nearly fall over. He laughs, climbs on his big red truck and leaves. I don't know where he gets his energy.

A smell invades my nostrils inside the shop; fragrant, pungent, and sickly at the same time. It's a strange but familiar aroma, more familiar than I care for. The floor, countertops, walls, and ceilings are slick with water. I maneuver my way around the overturned remains of chairs and tables to get to the kitchen.

That is where I see the body, which is new. It is in the corner under a fallen rack, blackened and scrunched up into a fetal position. I crouch down, seeing if I can find some identification, but it appears to be a lost cause. I'm not sure the corpse has any pockets. It's so far gone, I'm not even sure it has any pants. Whatever is encased in the crusted cocoon would require the services of the medical examiner.

"Sam."

"Jesus Christ, Feingold, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Jumpy today?" he says with an easy smile.

He looks positively radiant, as in actually emitting light. He's always this way, always bright, always eager, full of youthful vigor. I think he mainlines caffeine.

"So, you think this is the same guy?" he asks.

"Yeah. Got a body though. That's different."

"So what makes you think it's still the same guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Three Krispy Kremes in three weeks burned to a cinder. I'm taking a wild guess."

He nods. He's easy to convince. "Do we know who that is?" he says, pointing to the body.

"Maybe the owner. No identification yet. Will have to wait for the ME."

"Time to make the doughnuts."

"What?"

He grins. "You know, from those commercials? 'Time to make the doughnuts!'"

"That's Dunkin' Donuts, not Krispy Kreme," I say, but I don't know why. It's better to ignore him, not argue.

"Just saying, you know--"

"Spare me, okay?"

He laughs and I stare at him.

"I get it. Like a tire right? A doughnut spare?"

I steer him to the door and tell him to get statements from the potential witnesses gathered behind the barricades. As he struts out to greet the public, pad and pen in hand, I can't help but imagine that he might become police commissioner one day and say a silent prayer.

I make some calls and find out that the owner and all employees are accounted for, then look around some more without Feingold and stay late to talk to Tess, our friendly neighborhood medical examiner, who promises to call me before she does the autopsy.

When I get back to that station, it is already late afternoon. I knock on the captain's door and receive a grunt in reply.

"You wanted an update on the arsons?"

Another grunt. The boss is not much of a conversationalist.

"It's probably our guy. There was a body at the scene. If we're lucky, maybe it's our firebug."

"Good," he says, which is my cue to leave.

I walk back to my desk, trailing essence of charbroiled doughnut. I sit and rub my eyes, tired beyond comprehension. At least no one has made any cop and doughnut jokes today.

"Honey glazed."

It's Feingold sitting across from me. When did he get here? It looks like he's wearing different clothes from this morning. They're clean and pressed.

I look up at him. "What?" I say. I am not in the mood for this.

"Honey glazed. That's the doughnut that you smell like," he says, beaming.

Chipper bastard.

The Other Guy

There is always THE OTHER GUY in romantic comedies. The formula has some variables, but often times THE OTHER GUY is never the focus of the story. He is a catalyst to the plot and we don't care about him. But take a moment to think about what this man has to go through. He's a doormat.

Darryl is twenty nine years old. He's a decent guy, has a good job, loves his family, cares for his friends. He is the type of person that is considered great company. One day, Darryl meets a girl, who is beautiful, smart, funny, all things you'd like in a romantic prospect. They hit it off, and in a whirlwind romance, he proposes shortly after. He does everything right and they are in love.

Then enters a third party. Surprise! It's the girl's old friend, a misogynistic, callous, womanizer. But he is a friend, so he makes nice and accepts him. But of course he is not here to be friends. He is here to ruin your life. This is because he harbors a secret flame for your fiance, one that he never knew of, and burns so much more brightly now that she is less attainable. He woos her, and she swoons with little effort because she has a soft spot for jerks and lost causes. He crashes Darryl's wedding and she leaves him, this perfect girl, to a chorus of applause. Applause!

And so they live happily every after. Minus THE OTHER GUY. What's his name again?

Prodigal Son

"How old are you?"

The boy held up three fingers, then--probably because he was bored of me--walked away and returned to his toy cars. He rolled them on the hardwood floor, making engine noises.

"Quite a kid you have there," I said to his mother, a nervous woman.

"Thank you."

She was visibly distressed, shaking.

"It'll be okay."

She looked at me. I don't think she believes me.

"Why don't we start with when it began?"

She nodded. "Two weeks ago," she said, then her eyes averted from mine and went wide.

I turned around and saw little Tommy giggling and playing with his cars, except they were floating two feet above his head, racing on an invisible track of air.

Apple Attack

The day after Melanie brought her new Mac home, strange things started to happen. At first, it was everything as advertised. It was easy to use and quick, all in a slick, fun package.

Then she found a button hidden in the back of the monitor. If she slid her hand over it very quickly, she would never have noticed it. But if she probed, applied more pressure with her fingertips, a button was depressed.

She clicked it, and when she let go, the button reformed with the smooth, glossy finish. A shiny white disc popped out from the side of the disc tray and clattered onto the desk.

She looked at it closely. There was nothing special to it. A perfect circle, smooth like glass. No discernible use. Maybe a coaster. This certainly wasn't in the brochures.

She clicked it again. Out popped another one like toast. She clicked a few more times, and each time another disc popped out. She shrugged, put them in a stack and left it at that. Strange, she thought. She'd have to ask her friend Mark tomorrow. He knew about computers.

The next day, the little white coasters were gone.

The day after that, and this is hard to explain, but the other electronics in the house started acting... strange. It was as someone dusted all of them overnight. They all sparkled, they were so shiny. And their edges were all buffed down to a corner.

All of a sudden, the VCR was easier to use. She turned the television on, and the only channel that worked was a style channel, where each show maligned and scoffed at its everyday normal guests for their utter inadequacy at arranging furniture or dressing themselves.

She tried calling Mark, but her phone mysteriously disappeared. She went to sleep.

The next day, she woke up and everything in her room had turned white.

Answer the Question

They are outside now, the press. They are going to want answers. They're bloodhounds, and they know a good story. But what can I tell them? How do you explain how an eight year old girl is thrown from a van into a ditch? How do you explain the bruises and wounds on her body? What can I tell them? That every time I see one of these cases, I think it's time to pack it in? That I go home and can't sleep for hours?

I look in the mirror in my office. My uniform is clean and pressed, presentable. The shield shines. It used to mean something to me, maybe still does. The man in the mirror looks old. His eyes are dark and hollow. I smooth out my hair, collect myself, and walk outside.

Everest

In his wildest dreams, Dennis Hinderman never thought he would be here now, on the top of Everest. It was a grueling journey. The last fifty feet took an hour even though it was on level ground. But there was snow. Oh, the snow blinded him and whipping from all directions. The oxygen was scarce and it took all his energy behind each step to make any progress.

But like a switch, the weather cleared when he reached the summit. He stood there, barely, with his group admiring the view. He could see for miles. He could see clouds below him. Clouds!

He looked down at his arm, what was left of it. They had said he wouldn't be able to make it on one good hand. That it was too hard. Give up, Dennis, they said.

The group leader told them it was time to back down. The summit or anywhere near it was no place to be in the dark. Dennis took one more look, let it soak in, and joined the others for the descent.

Catching Up With Friends

They told me the train would come in at five in the afternoon. My friends, that is. I haven't seen them in years and it will be good to be in their company again. Going by train seemed quaint, romanticized in a way. A backpacking trip across the country. I would join them after the start of the journey, while they would have already been on the train for four hours.

But I was late. Horribly.

When I got to the platform, the train was on it's way out of the station. I wonder what it must have looked like, myself running top speed, backpack flying off my shoulder, grabbing a handle and swinging myself on board just as the last car cleared the platform. Probably more dashing and exciting than I imagined.

Laura

"Do you like Laura?" the girl had asked me.

"I don't even know her." That was my answer at the age of ten, before attention to nuance and hidden meanings meant anything to young boys.

I don't even remember what Laura looked like. She may have been pretty. But perhaps I should have yes. I realize now that she must have sent her friend over to ask me that important question while she waited for the answer.

It never occurred to me why I was being asked such a ridiculous question tha thad nothing to do with anything. There I was, enjoying my afternoon at camp, playing with friends when a girl I don't know comes up to me and asks me if I like a girl that I don't know.

It makes a person wonder how many lost opportunities lie in their past, past and gone because he was too dense to realize what they were.

It Came From Above

The object was smooth to the point of polished marble. It was dense and dark. And it fell to Earth unnoticed on a cool April night at Robin McCready's farm. In between rows of romaine lettuce, it simmered, cooling after its intergalactic trip.

It wouldn't be found until harvest time when Robin sorted through the leafy greens, found the stone, admired its sheen, and pocketed it.

That night, Robin would begin to change. In ways he never dreamed of.

Storm Brew

Clouds roll in from the west, obfuscating the sun. The sky turns a purplish red, hazy and thick with humidity. There is a shimmer of light in the gray mass of sky, followed by a crack of thunder. Standing still, one can see the storm advancing, unrelenting, steady. And in a torrent of water, it is upon us. It is an orchestra of sounds and light, water and wind. Droplets fall so quickly that they form sheets of water on the ground. Lawns turn into muddy quagmires. Trees shake with ferocity. In the distance, a sliver of yellow is seen. The sun peeks through.

No Frills Baseball

Derek stood at the plate, demarcated by a frisbee. The pitcher, tossed the apple at the plate. With a mighty swing, Derek smashed the apples with a near petrified tree branch, sending apple sauce into the sky. The remainder of the fruit soared a hundred feet into the air.

"Okay. Me next," said the pitcher, and ran towards the frisbee.

Derek dropped the branch and trotted over to the pitcher's mound, a pile of autumn leaves. He picked up another apple that had fallen from the tree and wound up.

Goodbye Mr. Friskers

"I don't need you anymore," the girl said.

She looked at her old friend. His downy marmalade hair seemed to hang lower. Normally bright eyed and energetic, Mr Frisker's looked solemn. He stretched out, all four feet of him.

"Are you sure?"

The girl swung a leg absent-mindedly, scraping the school ground asphalt.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Bye," she said and ran to her awaiting group of friends.

Together, they ran to the park. The girl turned to look back for one last look at her friend. He was gone.

Fast

"How fast do you think this thing goes," she asks with a devilish twinkle in her eye.

"Let's just keep it under 90," I say.

She eases down on the accelerator, and I watch the tachometer's needle rise as the engine whines. The added speed pushes me into my seat. We fly by vehicles left and right, deftly slipping in and out of traffic.

Then, above the engine and noise of the wind, a very distinct sound. Police sirens.

"Let's see how fast thing can decelerate," I say.

Death Fall

Randy Houghton was shot six times and died before he hit the ground. His killer, Mary Devereaux, killed him on a roof top. In a rage, she kicked his lifeless body off the building. It fell five stories, smacking on the fire escape on the way down, until it slammed into a dumpster with a sickening thud.

When the authorities came, Randy's body was hardly recognizable. The EMT checked his pulse merely as a formality, then the coroner's office zipped up the black body bag.

Mary

The girl strode into the glass booth in the private room and began dancing around the pole. She had her eyes closed, moving to the music in her head.

"Mary."

The girl looked at the source of the voice. A woman.

"Name's Ginger."

"Your daughter wants to see you, Mary."

"Wait," the girl said, but the woman was gone.

Pranks and Misdemeanors

I shush Eric. His new sneakers continue squeaking on the linoleum, but at a softer, more deliberate pace. We are in the office an hour before everyone else gets in, but I am still paranoid that someone might be here. It's the first of April and they are in for a surprise when they come in today.

We unlock the utility closet. Eric knows the janitor.

"Got the dye?" I ask.

He hands me the bottle. I slosh it around.

"That's all?"

He shrugs. I tell him to fill the mop bucket with water. When he comes back, I add in the corn starch I brought along with the dye and start mixing it into a thin slurry. It looks like almost-set red jello.

Eric has a mischievous grin on his face. "Let's go," he says with barely controlled excitemement.

We start slathering the aisles with the fake blood with mop, tracing a chaotic struggle that it is supposed to represent. When we are done, it looks like a masterpiece. A crime scene in thirty minutes.

After I am done cleaning up, I go to our hiding spot where Eric is already keeping a lookout.

"Shh!"

"What?" I say.

"Harriet is here early."

Harriet is our boss, and not a very good one. We peek around the corner of a wall to observe the unfolding result of our efforts. She turns the light on, takes one step, screams at the sight of the floors, and slips on the slurry. She falls hard, landing on a wrist, which makes her scream louder.

Eric looks at me with wide eyes.

"Oh crap..." he mouths.

Accidental Hero

Gretchen waited for the light to turn green. Then she heard a scream. Then another. Then another. She looked to see the source of it and found it. A van was barreling down the street backwards on the cross street. She could not be for certain, but the way the van was moving indicated that there was nobody in the driver's seat, or if there were, he or she was currently not in the land of the conscious.

In the crosswalk, a couple of kids had dared to cross against the Don't Walk sign. They froze when they saw the van.

In a split second decision that Gretchen could not explain with any specificity later on, she ran the red light and screeched to a halt, making her compact an improvised barrier between the children and the runaway van. She couldn't get out; there wasn't any time. Her door opened up towards the oncoming van anway. She heard another volley of screams before taking one quick look at a bumper heading straight for her door.

When she woke, the van had pushed her tiny car up at a thirty degree angle. He door was crumpled in wedged against her side. A fine dust filled the cabin and the air bag cushioned her head against the headrest. Surprisingly, she could feel all her arms and legs. Other than a headache, she seemed to be in once piece. She could hear machinery outside as emergency workers started ripping her door apart with the jaws of life.

Gretchen got out of the car without aid and heard another roar of screaming, but not of horror and surprise. It was the sound of a sea of people cheering and clapping.