Nana
The block was gone.
She stopped at the corner, lungs heaving, the moonpetal pot clutched against her chest. She'd run three streets before her legs gave out. Three streets before she remembered she didn't know where she was going.
Then she heard the explosion.
Not an explosion—a detonation. The kind you feel in your teeth. The kind that turns the sky orange for a full second before the sound catches up.
She'd turned around. Started running back.
Against the current. Everyone else was fleeing, stumbling, screaming, dragging children and bags and each other. Nana shoved through them. An old man grabbed her arm, said something she didn't hear.
"Move." She yanked free. "You're in my bubble."
The smoke got thicker. The heat got worse. She kept running.
Now she was here.
