“Danielle Vinchenzo. I’m a reporter with FOX News.” Danielle coughed, choking on dust.
“Sergeant Samuel Gander, ma’am,” Goose responded.
“I work this hard for you, Sergeant,” Danielle said, “I’m going to want an interview.” She coughed again but kept shifting rock.
“If we get out of here alive,” a heavyset man with a florid face said.
“We’ll get out alive,” Goose said with conviction.
The man made a show of looking around at the carnage that had been left of Glitter City. “A lot of people haven’t.”
Goose didn’t have anything to say to that.
A few minutes later, Bill had finished clearing the leaning wall section. He surveyed what was left, then looked at Goose. “We could try to dig him out, Sarge. Sand’s loose enough, and it would make quick work.”
“But the sand’s helping hold the wall back,” Goose said, realizing the difficulty they faced.
“Yep.” Bill took his helmet off, wiped his forehead with a grimy arm, and clapped it back in place. “We’re gonna have to get it off.”
“We’ll bring the section up with the crowbars,” Goose instructed, his mind quickly providing a possible solution to the problem. “Brace the section with rocks, then keep raising till we get the clearance we need.” He chose a relatively flat rock, hollowed out a place under the fallen wall, and set the rock into place.
Bill did the same.
“Hurry,” the man cried out from under the rock. “It’s getting … hard … to … breathe … in here.” The voice sounded weaker, and constant fits of coughing and retching echoed within.
When both crowbars were in place, Goose swapped looks with Bill. “On three,” Goose said. He counted. On three, he pulled up on the crowbar, straining everything he had. Black spots swam in his vision and he felt dizzy.
Slowly, inexorably, the wall section shifted, coming up a few inches. Sand flooded in from the sides, filling the cavity that had been left by the partial collapse.
The man inside screamed in terror. “It’s falling! It’s falling!”
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 12:18 A.M.
“Gerry,” Megan said softly.
The boy sat up in the middle of the hospital bed. His unruly auburn hair stuck out in places from uncontrollable cowlicks. Freckles spattered the bridge of his nose. His hazel eyes remained fixed in awe on the television suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room. His right arm hung in a clean white sling. Gauze pads covered scrapes on his arms and legs. He wore sweat pants with the knee out and a long-sleeved sweatshirt.
Megan knew Gerry had worn the sweats to try to hide the bruises on his arms, legs, and back. She sat quietly beside the bed, trying to keep herself relaxed in spite of everything rocketing through her mind. Watching the basketball game on television was grueling when she knew Goose was in action—in danger, she amended. She wanted to switch over to one of the news channels, but she tried to convince herself that if ESPN wasn’t interrupting the live game broadcast with news of the military engagement in Turkey, things couldn’t be too bad.
“Gerry,” Megan tried again.
The boy pointed at the television screen. “Did you see that?” he asked excitedly. “Did you see that?”
During the past twelve minutes of the precious thirty Helen Cordell had graciously allotted, Megan had talked basketball with the boy, mostly listening. She had picked up some of the players’ names. Only a minute or two ago, Gerry had bemoaned the fact that the Knicks guard was scoring on the Lakers player. Gerry was a major Lakers fan.
“Gerry,” Megan said in a slightly sterner voice. “We’re going to have to talk about what happened tonight.”
Without looking at her, Gerry drew away, curling himself into a ball. He drew his legs up, wrapped his uninjured arm around his knees, and protectively cradled his injured arm between his stomach and his thighs. His attention never wavered from the screen.
Thankfully, the Lakers called for a time-out and the station shifted to a commercial.
“Gerry, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gander.” The boy reached for the half-empty bottle of chocolate milk on the tray beside the bed. He made certain the cap was on tightly, then shook the bottle vigorously.
The action reminded Megan of Joey at that age, and sometimes even now. When she saw him. Between school, his friends, and the part-time job at the small café in Columbus, whole days passed lately that she and her eldest son spent only minutes together. But where Joey took chocolate milk as a given, Gerry seemed to treasure the bottle he had, doling it out to himself in small sips.
“We need to talk,” Megan said.
“About what?” Gerry kept checking the television screen, but he was studiously ignoring her. He took an Oreo from the small pile of cookies on the paper plate and unscrewed the treat. He licked at the white filling.
“Your fall.”
Gerry shrugged. A twinge of pain flashed across his face, blanching his cheeks white under his freckles. “I just fell.”
“From the roof of your house?”
“Yeah.” He licked at the cookie again tentatively.
“What were you doing on top of the house?”
“Looking at the stars.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I like stars.”
Megan went with that patiently, knowing the clock was working against her and that the commercial on television couldn’t last forever. “What do you like about stars?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you looked at them before?”
“Yeah. All the time.”
“You’ve never mentioned that in one of our sessions.”
“So?”
“We’ve talked about other things you like. Basketball. Biking. It just seems kind of strange that you’ve never mentioned an interest in astronomy before.” Gerry preferred to talk about anything other than his father and his relationship with the man. During some sessions, Gerry had even stooped to talking about homework problems and assignments.
“Maybe,” Gerry said, “it’s ’cause you didn’t ask.”
Megan let that statement sit between them for a moment. By assigning the blame to her, Gerry was trying to distance himself from the conversation. She remained silent, knowing from experience that arguing the
