2

Sasha

Earthquakes were normal in California. The town of Edson sat right on top of a crack in the earth’s crust, one of the mini fault lines that branched out from the San Andreas. Sasha had lost count of how many earthquakes she’d experienced. Most were just tiny blips on the Richter scale, lasting only a few seconds, barely rattling the coasters on the living room coffee table.

For most of her life, Sasha had practiced for earthquakes the “normal” way. During drills at school, she ducked under her desk and held on to the desk leg. When an earthquake struck at home, she dove under her kitchen table. Once, she’d woken up in the middle of the night, feeling her bed shaking up and down. She’d pulled her blankets over her head, to protect herself against falling objects, and waited it out.

That experience probably came closest to her current earthquake response strategy. Stay put, cover your head, and hope for the best. Being in the wheelchair had made her a little more nervous about earthquakes—about any emergency. She used to love disaster movies. She and Liam went to every summer blockbuster with a collapsing bridge in the trailer. They used to joke that if they were in one of these movies, they’d never make it through the first half hour. Since the accident, Sasha hadn’t been so keen to see those films. Not just because the Edson movie theater was wheelchair accessible in name only. But because now, she knew that if she were a character in one of these movies, she’d be killed off within the first ten minutes. Or else the star would rescue her and tote her around like a ragdoll the whole time.

As for real-life disasters . . . for a while she’d thought about them obsessively. What would I do if . . . or How would I get out of this building in the event of . . . But then it had started to seem ridiculous. Real disasters happened so fast. The car that had hit her came out of nowhere. You couldn’t plan your reaction ahead of time. You couldn’t predict how things would play out.

Which left her with just the basics: stay put, cover your head, and hope for the best.

That’s what she did at two o’clock that afternoon, when the earthquake hit.

***

Sasha, Liam, and Ray were in the library. They were supposed to be working on a presentation for English class and their English teacher had given them permission to do research in the library. The three of them sat at one of the tables in the open workspace at the back, near the windows, pretending to look through some books.

“Harper picked a good day to go home early,” said Liam. “Independent research in English, a substitute teacher in history—”

“Did you watch The Last Days of Pompeii again?” asked Ray.

“Obviously. That’s what we always watch when Mr. Norman is out. I swear, that movie is actually three days long. I heard that one class did get to the part where the volcano erupts, but it was only because they lied to the substitute about where they left off.”

“But it’s the character development that matters . . . ”

“There’ll be algebra homework, though,” Sasha cut in before Ray could get going on some nerdy lecture about cinematic storytelling strategies. “Worksheet due Monday. Do you think I should pick up an extra handout for Harper? Or just let her get one from Mrs. Oliver tomorrow?”

“Why does Mrs. Oliver still do worksheets anyway?” asked Liam. “Printed paper is so wasteful. Why can’t we just do everything online?”

“You realize we’re in a library,” said Ray.

“Which just proves my point.” Liam held up the novel they’d been reading for class. “I guarantee you I can find this online. This is a 2012 reprint of a book that was published in 1844. Why did the world need this? How many trees died in 2012 for a book I can read on Project Gutenberg?”

“Guys,” said Sasha. “I was asking your opinion about Harper.”

Ray put his head on the table. Harper might be the most dramatic one, but Ray was the runner-up. “I literally can’t devote another brain cell to Harper today. If you can, Sasha, good for you.”

That’s when the floor started to shake.

Actually, everything started to shake. A low rumbling noise filled the air. No one needed to ask what was going on. They all knew the drill. Liam and Ray disappeared under the table. Sasha backed her wheelchair against the wall, locked the wheels, and curled her upper body into a fetal position.

Instinctively, Sasha started counting the seconds. Three—four—five—

She heard books topple off their shelves and hit the floor with a scattered drumbeat noise. Luckily the bookcases themselves were nailed to the floor, and their rows ended just where the table workspace began. But even though Sasha was parked in a bookshelf-free space, several books struck her arms, which she’d raised to cover her head. Liam was right. Digital was the way to go.

Ten seconds, eleven—Man, this is a long one . . .

Sasha heard the windows shatter. She didn’t feel any glass hit her, though, and she prayed that none had lodged in her wheelchair tires.

Fifteen seconds—

Her wheelchair was moving. Even though the brakes were on, the wheels hopped forward and back, forward and back, in sickening little jolts. That’s what she got for having an ultra-light manual wheelchair, instead of a powerchair that weighed as much as a tank. Don’t tip over, don’t tip over . . . Sasha was starting to feel nauseated, as if she were on a rollercoaster.

Twenty seconds—

And then stillness.