1

No, that’s not right,” Julia whispered.

No one in the room heard her words. They escaped barely louder than a breath. At the same time, the room was utterly silent except for the television. Everyone’s eyes locked onto the screen and what it said.

A second later and the picture flashed like a sudden lightning strike. Julia looked at a younger version of herself on the screen, standing next to Michael. It was the same picture she had used on the flyers, but it appeared in high-definition color on whatever news channel her neighbors had been watching while she’d been gone.

“That isn’t right,” she said, louder this time.

Julia didn’t move. But she looked at her friends, a slow, furtive scan around the room. No one made eye contact. No one moved. The television might as well have been muted because no one heard a word that the anchor read from the teleprompter offscreen. Instead, the picture mesmerized every one of them. They swayed like charmed snakes.

Neurons exploded in Julia’s head. It was like a flash of blinding light, and it tore her feet off the tile floor in the kitchen. She moved in a swift but stiff walk, passing among her friends like they might be bystanders gathering around a train wreck. She never thought about her actions, what she would do. She might have looked around quickly, trying to find the remote. If so, that action was barely noticeable. What she did next, however, could never be missed.

Without slowing, Julia reached the television, where it rested atop a black wood stand. Her thighs struck the edge and her arms shot out, stiff and straight. Palms open, she struck the side of the flat screen. The television spun once and then flew off the stand, striking the wall before hitting the ground at an awkward angle. A blue spark shot out a vent in the back, and there was a sharp squeal before it went silent.

Julia stood, her side to her neighbors and her mother, facing the television. A thin wisp of silver smoke rose up as if from a burning cigarette. A miniature mockery of the smoke she’d seen in the city. Her arms lowered and her hands, hot and damp, hung limp by her side.

“It’s not right!” she said, again.

Julia would never know just how long everyone simply stood there, staring, mouths hanging open, eyes wide. Time shrunk to its most basic meaning, a rhythmic ticking of the passage of their days. Those seconds became years peeling away from her life like dead skin after a bad sunburn. It left her raw and hot and unbelievably tired.

“No,” she said. “It’s . . .”

She didn’t finish it that time. The dangling sentence started the clock for everyone else in the room. Neighbors, friends, they moved toward her. Hands reached for her. Soft words were spoken for her. Then Evelyn was there, standing before her, holding Julia’s face in her hands. Eyes finding hers.

“Listen to me,” her friend said. “It’s a mistake. You know it’s a mistake.”

Julia blinked. She knew that. Without a doubt. In that instant, she knew that for certain. A strange laugh escaped Julia. It struck those around her. Their purpose shifted. Bodies inched away from her, just slightly, as her lips clamped shut.

Undeniable, the laugh burst out again. Evelyn grabbed her, pressing into her tightly. The sound Julia made morphed. At some point, it switched over to a racking sob.

“He’s coming home,” Evelyn kept whispering. “It’ll all be okay.”

But often words are empty.