wait?” I said, clenching my jaw and shaking my head.
“No.”
Tears were streaming down her face.
“I—” she stammered, “I, um—”
“We have just received an emergency alert from the DHS. Oh my God…”
Lauren and I turned toward the TV. The CNN anchor was at a loss for words.
“…the DHS is reporting multiple unknown and unidentified aerial targets over the continental United States, and is asking the public for any information—”
And then everything went dark.
The background hum of the machines went silent, and I found myself staring into blackness where the CNN anchor had been a split second before. All I could hear was the banging of my own heart and the rush of blood in my eardrums.
Breathlessly, I waited, half expecting the brilliant flash of a thermonuclear explosion to burn through my retinas. But the only thing I heard was the quiet howl of the wind outside while my eyes adjusted to the dim light from the candles still burning on the kitchen counter.
Seconds ticked by.
“Let’s get Luke and go next door, okay?” I said shakily. “Find out what’s going on.”
Lauren grabbed onto my arm.
“Please,” she begged, “I need to get this out.”
“What?” I demanded, my anger and fear boiling over. “You need to come clean right now?”
“Yes—”
“I don’t want to hear this,” I spat back. “I don’t want to hear about how you’re sleeping with Richard, how you’re sorry, how you never meant to hurt anyone.”
She burst into tears.
“You pick this moment,” I yelled, “this goddamn moment—”
“Don’t be such an asshole, Mike,” she sobbed. “Please stop being so angry.”
“I’m an asshole? You’re sleeping with someone, and I’m an asshole? I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”
“Please...”
I glared at her, and she stared back at me defiantly.
“WHAT?” I shouted, throwing my hands into the air. Luke began crying loudly in the background.
In the wavering candlelight she put one trembling hand to her mouth and quietly answered me.
“I’m pregnant.”
Day 3 – Christmas Day – December 25
9:35 a . m .
“YOU DIDN’T ASK if it was yours, did you?”
I stopped digging and exhaled slowly.
“You did, didn’t you?” laughed Chuck. “You are an asshole.”
My head sagged, and I rubbed my face with one snow-encrusted glove.
“And I mean that in the best possible way, my friend.”
“Thanks,” I sighed, shaking my head, and began digging again.
Chuck leaned through the doorway. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. She’ll forgive you. It’s Christmas.”
I grunted and threw myself into digging out the last few shovelfuls. Pam had wrapped Chuck’s injury, so he had a club for one hand, making him useless for digging. Just my luck.
“You gotta stop imagining things,” added Chuck, “stop seeing things that aren’t there. That girl adores you.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, unconvinced.
It was still snowing, not as hard as yesterday, but still snowing—the whitest of white Christmases that had ever graced New York. Everything outside was covered, and the cars parked down Twenty-Fourth Street were marked by only the barest of lumps in the thick carpet of snow. This silent and blanketed New York was surreal and eerie.
Right after the blackout, we hadn’t seen the glow of mushroom clouds on the horizon, so we assumed the worst hadn’t happened. Chuck, Tony, and I had gone outside and battled our way over two blocks to the Chelsea Piers, straining to see into the snowy blackness above the Hudson. I’d expected to see or hear something, a fighter aircraft battling an unseen foe, but no. After a tense couple of hours, nothing had happened except that the snow had gotten deeper.
The moment the power had gone out, Chuck had fired up his generator. The fiber-optic line from Verizon, that the building had its TV and internet plugged into, should have worked even in a blackout—assuming you could power up your
“No.”
Tears were streaming down her face.
“I—” she stammered, “I, um—”
“We have just received an emergency alert from the DHS. Oh my God…”
Lauren and I turned toward the TV. The CNN anchor was at a loss for words.
“…the DHS is reporting multiple unknown and unidentified aerial targets over the continental United States, and is asking the public for any information—”
And then everything went dark.
The background hum of the machines went silent, and I found myself staring into blackness where the CNN anchor had been a split second before. All I could hear was the banging of my own heart and the rush of blood in my eardrums.
Breathlessly, I waited, half expecting the brilliant flash of a thermonuclear explosion to burn through my retinas. But the only thing I heard was the quiet howl of the wind outside while my eyes adjusted to the dim light from the candles still burning on the kitchen counter.
Seconds ticked by.
“Let’s get Luke and go next door, okay?” I said shakily. “Find out what’s going on.”
Lauren grabbed onto my arm.
“Please,” she begged, “I need to get this out.”
“What?” I demanded, my anger and fear boiling over. “You need to come clean right now?”
“Yes—”
“I don’t want to hear this,” I spat back. “I don’t want to hear about how you’re sleeping with Richard, how you’re sorry, how you never meant to hurt anyone.”
She burst into tears.
“You pick this moment,” I yelled, “this goddamn moment—”
“Don’t be such an asshole, Mike,” she sobbed. “Please stop being so angry.”
“I’m an asshole? You’re sleeping with someone, and I’m an asshole? I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”
“Please...”
I glared at her, and she stared back at me defiantly.
“WHAT?” I shouted, throwing my hands into the air. Luke began crying loudly in the background.
In the wavering candlelight she put one trembling hand to her mouth and quietly answered me.
“I’m pregnant.”
Day 3 – Christmas Day – December 25
9:35 a . m .
“YOU DIDN’T ASK if it was yours, did you?”
I stopped digging and exhaled slowly.
“You did, didn’t you?” laughed Chuck. “You are an asshole.”
My head sagged, and I rubbed my face with one snow-encrusted glove.
“And I mean that in the best possible way, my friend.”
“Thanks,” I sighed, shaking my head, and began digging again.
Chuck leaned through the doorway. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. She’ll forgive you. It’s Christmas.”
I grunted and threw myself into digging out the last few shovelfuls. Pam had wrapped Chuck’s injury, so he had a club for one hand, making him useless for digging. Just my luck.
“You gotta stop imagining things,” added Chuck, “stop seeing things that aren’t there. That girl adores you.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, unconvinced.
It was still snowing, not as hard as yesterday, but still snowing—the whitest of white Christmases that had ever graced New York. Everything outside was covered, and the cars parked down Twenty-Fourth Street were marked by only the barest of lumps in the thick carpet of snow. This silent and blanketed New York was surreal and eerie.
Right after the blackout, we hadn’t seen the glow of mushroom clouds on the horizon, so we assumed the worst hadn’t happened. Chuck, Tony, and I had gone outside and battled our way over two blocks to the Chelsea Piers, straining to see into the snowy blackness above the Hudson. I’d expected to see or hear something, a fighter aircraft battling an unseen foe, but no. After a tense couple of hours, nothing had happened except that the snow had gotten deeper.
The moment the power had gone out, Chuck had fired up his generator. The fiber-optic line from Verizon, that the building had its TV and internet plugged into, should have worked even in a blackout—assuming you could power up your
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