“What?” This time I do brake the car, bringing us to a screeching stop in the middle of the freeway. I twist in the seat to face her. “Who?” I ask, while Trey simultaneously says, “What does he say?”

Tanq blinks up at me. “He says he’s low on fuel for his generator, and he won’t be able to broadcast much longer, but if anyone is out there, he wants them to come to his broadcast location in Sandusky.”

“Is that it?” Trey says. “Anything else?”

“We should go!” I say. “As soon as . . .”

Again Tanq shrinks inside herself, as though she’s trying to make her body too small a target. Suddenly, it’s my brother Ryan in the car beside me, before his growth spurt, with his sandy blond hair and his cowering shoulders, listening to the rumbling warning of the garage door that signaled the Sperm Donor getting home from work.

In a quiet voice, Tanq-not-Ryan says, “Maybe you should listen to the broadcast yourself.”

“Does he give an address?” Trey pushes, because he can’t see the deepening panic in her eyes. “Does he say anything about other survivors? Does he—”

“We’ll listen tonight,” I interrupt. “All of us together.”

In the rearview mirror, I note how Trey presses his lips tight. I give him a subtle nod.

No one talks as I get the car rolling again. We glide toward the handful of skyscrapers that mark downtown Columbus. The giant rectangle of the Nationwide building looms over us, like a cement brick standing on end. It’s the ugliest building downtown by far, but everyone loves it anyway because the windows always light up at night for the holidays, forming a heart on Valentine’s Day, a triangle-shaped tree on Christmas.

“The Nationwide building will never light up again,” says Trey, like he’s in my head.

Then he gasps. The freeway has curved around just enough that we can glimpse the front of the building. Below the massive “Nationwide” marquee is a small crashed plane, a Cessna maybe, like the ones always coming in and out of the OSU airport. Its nose is deep in shattered windows, its cockpit, rudder, and tail protruding precariously into the sky. It looks as though a stiff breeze could send it toppling to the street hundreds of feet below.

“Some people died so fast,” Tanq whispers. “So fast that planes fell out of the sky.”

“I thought you were glad about that,” I say, in a tone more accusing than I intend.

She whips her head toward me, gives me a weird look. “I wanted everyone to fuck off, not fuck off and die. I’m not a monster.”

“Okay,” I say, even though it doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand how anyone would choose aloneness. It’s like having a constant, aching hole in your heart.