own right. But these people would soon lose everything they valued as Americans as well. Their ancestors had lived and died for over two centuries without facing subjection to a foreign power. No current citizen of this great nation had ever felt the sting of such powerlessness.
Two hundred years.
Two hundred years of independence, making them feel safer than they should have; far more than historically the norm. Unthinkable—yes, but it was indeed happening now, in their lifetimes. This generation would be the one forced to swallow the bitter pill of submission, and all at once.
Dalton broke away from the crowded room. Once around the corner he tried to gain the attention of the young woman at the nurses' call station.
"Excuse me, Miss?"
She stood there, consumed by the words spoken by her president.
Again.
"Excuse me... Miss?"
She looked at Zeb and cried.
Dalton treaded lightly. He wasn't the king of tact. Neither was he a complete interpersonal dolt.
"Miss," he tried once more. "I just wanted to see if the young woman I'd inquired about earlier is doing any better."
Zeb hadn't shown up at the ER for himself. Bearing only minor contusions, his injuries didn't really meet the needs test, compared to those around him. His body would be fine if he took it easy. A few tender ribs on his right side, his left shin mildly sore. Other than that his thirty-something frame had held up reasonably well, considering what he'd experienced back at Pike Place.
He gave the nurse a softer, knowing look. Upon realizing the crucial nature of her job she found her voice again, ignoring her own fears in favor of caring for others.
"Uh... so sorry," she said. "Of course. Her name, again?"
"Maryska. Her first name is Maryska. That's all I got."
"Are you a family member?" she asked, staring blankly past him as she spoke, out into the open hallway where an overload of patients waited, being assessed and prepped for the next available procedure room.
Zeb looked her in the eye, trying to draw her back to a place of reason. An obvious really? played across his face. He was minimally compassionate but also very impatient.
"Oh, yes. Here she is..." Looking at her computer screen. "Doing much better. Smoke inhalation. She's resting now."
So good to hear.
Following Zeb's failed attempt to rescue her elderly friend, Maryska indeed went back into the building on her own. In the chaos of flare and heat he must've rushed right past her. To overlook her again when she came out would have been impossible. Exiting the inferno and then falling to the ground, the young woman lay there limply. Across the street at the time and not hesitating to take another opportunity for redemption Zeb got up from where he sat, immobilized in despair.
Gathering Maryska up like a roll of carpet and throwing her smallish body over his right shoulder he sped away from the crash site. He ran a full four blocks east of the market before it felt safe enough to hand her over to the professionals. The exhausted rescuer looked in on her through the small back window of the ambulance, her body lying still on the metal gurney inside.
This news now—that she would recover? A small, welcomed blessing on a day of such multiplying sorrows.
Satisfied, Zeb walked away but then paused.
The TV screen in the waiting room caught his attention. The scene was changing from DC to local broadcast, an important follow-up to the president's speech expected next.
With a single podium in focus, the Rotunda of the Capitol building in Olympia filled the rest of the shot. Polished marble floors, high, arched ceilings. Symbols of political sovereignty hanging on every wall and mantle. The physical volume of the space magnified the smallest of sounds, making the vacuous dome even more ominous on this solemn occasion. Crews scrambled, setting lights and running cables while aides and interns rushed about. The last worker-bee exited the camera frame as Paul Tilden , Director of Emergency
Two hundred years.
Two hundred years of independence, making them feel safer than they should have; far more than historically the norm. Unthinkable—yes, but it was indeed happening now, in their lifetimes. This generation would be the one forced to swallow the bitter pill of submission, and all at once.
Dalton broke away from the crowded room. Once around the corner he tried to gain the attention of the young woman at the nurses' call station.
"Excuse me, Miss?"
She stood there, consumed by the words spoken by her president.
Again.
"Excuse me... Miss?"
She looked at Zeb and cried.
Dalton treaded lightly. He wasn't the king of tact. Neither was he a complete interpersonal dolt.
"Miss," he tried once more. "I just wanted to see if the young woman I'd inquired about earlier is doing any better."
Zeb hadn't shown up at the ER for himself. Bearing only minor contusions, his injuries didn't really meet the needs test, compared to those around him. His body would be fine if he took it easy. A few tender ribs on his right side, his left shin mildly sore. Other than that his thirty-something frame had held up reasonably well, considering what he'd experienced back at Pike Place.
He gave the nurse a softer, knowing look. Upon realizing the crucial nature of her job she found her voice again, ignoring her own fears in favor of caring for others.
"Uh... so sorry," she said. "Of course. Her name, again?"
"Maryska. Her first name is Maryska. That's all I got."
"Are you a family member?" she asked, staring blankly past him as she spoke, out into the open hallway where an overload of patients waited, being assessed and prepped for the next available procedure room.
Zeb looked her in the eye, trying to draw her back to a place of reason. An obvious really? played across his face. He was minimally compassionate but also very impatient.
"Oh, yes. Here she is..." Looking at her computer screen. "Doing much better. Smoke inhalation. She's resting now."
So good to hear.
Following Zeb's failed attempt to rescue her elderly friend, Maryska indeed went back into the building on her own. In the chaos of flare and heat he must've rushed right past her. To overlook her again when she came out would have been impossible. Exiting the inferno and then falling to the ground, the young woman lay there limply. Across the street at the time and not hesitating to take another opportunity for redemption Zeb got up from where he sat, immobilized in despair.
Gathering Maryska up like a roll of carpet and throwing her smallish body over his right shoulder he sped away from the crash site. He ran a full four blocks east of the market before it felt safe enough to hand her over to the professionals. The exhausted rescuer looked in on her through the small back window of the ambulance, her body lying still on the metal gurney inside.
This news now—that she would recover? A small, welcomed blessing on a day of such multiplying sorrows.
Satisfied, Zeb walked away but then paused.
The TV screen in the waiting room caught his attention. The scene was changing from DC to local broadcast, an important follow-up to the president's speech expected next.
With a single podium in focus, the Rotunda of the Capitol building in Olympia filled the rest of the shot. Polished marble floors, high, arched ceilings. Symbols of political sovereignty hanging on every wall and mantle. The physical volume of the space magnified the smallest of sounds, making the vacuous dome even more ominous on this solemn occasion. Crews scrambled, setting lights and running cables while aides and interns rushed about. The last worker-bee exited the camera frame as Paul Tilden , Director of Emergency
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