By morning the streets of Georgetown were quiet and largely empty. When they gazed out the window together, both bleary-eyed, they saw only rubbish, and a burn barrel halfway down the block sending up dark plumes that joined other smoke drifting over the District.
But as far as they could see, there were few signs of devastating destruction. And no bodies.
Ruhi provided a breakfast of dry cereal and tepid milk. He’d kept the refrigerator closed since yesterday morning.
Both of them were ruing the absence of coffee when the electricity returned, startling them with sudden light from above and air-conditioner racket.
“Get that java jumping,” Candace urged without missing a beat. “I’m going to shower, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.”
She took her gun and locked the door. Ruhi ground the beans and put on the water.
He was examining the bullet holes in the top half of his front door when he thought to put his kitchen radio on. Nothing. All the stations were still off the air.
Candace stepped out in a fresh change of clothes. Wet hair. No makeup. Ruhi thought she looked fabulous.
“I’ve got to get over to the Capitol,” she said. “But I’ll be back tonight, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, but wouldn’t you be safer somewhere else? They’re hunting for you.”
“Not just me, Ruhi, and I can’t leave you high and dry.” She helped herself to half a cup of the brew. “I don’t want to,” she added in a soft voice that he hadn’t heard till now.
“Then stay, by all means,” Ruhi said, doing his best not to overwhelm her by sounding too ebullient. He dug around in a kitchen drawer and handed her a spare key.
“Thanks.”
They started moving the couch away from the door when a smooth, comforting voice came on the radio:
“I used to live in your country. It was in Detroit, not so long ago…”
They both walked across the living room, listening closely. In moments, they turned to each other in alarm.
Emma was not pleased. Sure, she understood that her mother needed to go fight the war on terror, or something like that. But the power was back on, so how bad could it be? But that’s not what really pissed her off. She was actually feeling pretty good about her mom, even holding her hand in the car. That was kind of nice. But all those warm feelings ended a few minutes ago when Lana said that Mrs. Johansson was coming over to take care of her.
“I’m too old for a babysitter,” Emma seethed, even though it hurt her throat to argue. If it hadn’t been so painful, she would have made an even louder case. That’s how irate she felt when she heard that Johansson the Jabberer was coming over to make sure Emma got her meds on time.
“She’s not really a babysitter,” Lana said. “She’s more like a caregiver.”
“I don’t care what you call her, she’s a babysitter!”
Oh, that hurt her throat. Emma gripped her neck, making sure her mother noticed how much she was sacrificing to make her point.
But it was true. Plus, Johansson hogged all the fun food. Potato chips, ice cream, you name it. All of it disappeared when Johansson came around. Gone. Poof.
“You’re on meds, darling,” Lana said, “so stop fretting and stay ahead of the pain. I can’t leave you home alone. You’ve got your phone, so get in touch with your friends. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you, and there’s some service now.”
Of course, if her dad hadn’t disappeared on them, she wouldn’t have to put up with “caregivers” at all. She forced herself, as she had many times before, to stop thinking about him. She already had plenty of pain with her throat, which felt like it was on fire. Argh. And here came Johansson, moving slowly up the front walk.
Her mom rushed out to greet Mrs. Johansson, gave Emma a quick hug, then hurried back out to her car.
Can’t get away fast enough, can you, Mom? Sure makes a girl feel loved.
But Emma knew she was being unfair — to her mom. Johansson was another story.
Emma hand-signaled Mrs. J immediately that she was going back to her room.
“Don’t lock the door,” her mom’s “friend” said. “You have your medicine to take.” Pronounced med-a-sin. It curdled Emma’s ears just to hear her say the word.
At least Emma had the phone. That was a relief. She checked her messages and could have screamed. Really and truly, raw throat or not. Skateboarder Boy must have gotten her number from someone, because he’d sent her a text, and there she was with all her Dora the Explorer glory on full display. His message SUCKED: C ME OR EVERYBODY WILL C U.
Emma didn’t know which was worse: the indignity of wearing those joke panties that weren’t so funny anymore, or lying like a slab of meat on a gurney with her skirt up over her hips. She wished it had been over her head.
She groaned and beat the bed with her first. She just knew that he’d already sent it all over the Internet. “Asshole!”
“Don’t talk like that,” Mrs. J said, standing over her shoulder with a glass of water and the pill bottle.
Emma looked up, then hid the phone against her chest. Too late.
“Are you sexting a boy? Give me that.”
Mrs. J put aside the pills and water and made an aggressive grab for the phone. Sedated or not, Emma rolled away, kicking wildly. Johansson wasn’t so easily daunted, though, and tried to shove Emma’s legs out of the way.
“I’m telling,” Emma tried to yell. She hit me, Mom. She did. Hard.
“You go right ahead. I want to hear what your mother has to say about all this.”
And Johansson kept coming, grabbing her arms. Geez, that hurt. And she was yelling, “Give me that phone. Give it to me!”
Now Emma panicked. Johansson had to have at least a hundred pounds on her, and she was coming in fast. Emma kicked frantically.
Uh-oh. She caught the babysitter right in the belly.
Mrs. J keeled, but got both feet under her. She staggered toward the door, groaning.
Emma felt horrible. She hadn’t kicked anyone since she was really little. But as soon as Mrs. J moved into the hallway, Emma eased the door shut and locked it.
She was actually relieved when Mrs. J had enough breath to say, “You are an evil child.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered, her voice almost gone.
Johansson rattled the handle. The lock held. Emma listened to Mrs. J plod away, and then threw herself on the bed, feeling miserable. She looked at the photo of her and her panties and felt even worse. But then she studied it closely. It was really kind of flattering, wasn’t it? Her face looked great, not like she was in pain, more like she’d found inner bliss. Like a saint. St. Emma.
It might have been shock that she was seeing on her face, but Emma didn’t care. I look great. And you can’t really see anything.
As for wearing little-girl underwear to high school, she’d play it cool, be ironic: Yeah, I wear them all the time. “Dora the Explorer” panties? Don’t you get it?
So… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Skateboarder Boy posted the photo.
She texted him back: I’M CALLING YOUR BLUFF. DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO. BUT I’LL C U ANYWAY.
Lana put on her headset and rang Jeff Jensen, her VP at CyberFortress, before she backed out of her garage. After he’d checked the company’s computer system, he’d texted her saying they needed to talk.
“I’m here,” Lana said when he picked up the line she had reserved for only her calls to him.