A loud bang cut her off midsentence. A rifle report … an M-80? Glass splintered and jangled, a large starfish-shaped break now in the window over the flowers. Sister Frankie sprang to her feet as a bottle filled with liquid sailed through the break, the telltale rag in its mouth.

“Get down! Get down!” I screamed.

She was bending down to pick up the bottle when a second bottle flew in. It hit her in the head and burst into flames. I grabbed the throw from the daybed and flung it and myself on her, wrapping her up, rolling her along the floor. I heard a third bottle land, and then screams from the street, car tires screeching, and, above it all, the hissing of fire, the snapping of flames, as fire grabbed books, bookcases, my own jacket. Choking on smoke and gasoline fumes, I rolled myself on top of Sister Frankie, trying to put out the fire licking at the arms of my jacket. Nun, throw, detective—an ungainly bundle—rolling to the door. I stuck up a quickly blistering arm, fumbled for the knob, tumbled into the hall.

25 - ALPHABET VISITORS FBI, OEM, HS, CPD

25

ALPHABET VISITORS FBI, OEM, HS, CPD

IT WAS THE DEAD OF NIGHT, AND MY FATHER WAS STILL out on patrol, still facing rioters someplace in the midnight city. People were throwing Molotov cocktails at him. I could see the bottles flying at his head, and I cried out, trying to warn him, which was stupid because he was miles away and couldn’t hear me. My mother mustn’t know I was frightened. It only made her worries harder when she had to comfort me as well as herself.

Our house was never truly dark. Flares from the mills created a ghostly light even at two in the morning, and the sky, always yellow from the sulfur vapors, gleamed dully all night long. Light seeped through the curtains and made my eyes hurt. My arms ached and my throat was sore. I had the flu. And, somewhere in the background, my mother was talking. A doctor had come to the house and was asking me how I felt.

“I’m fine.” I couldn’t complain about being sick, not with Papà out fighting a riot.

“What’s your name?” the doctor wanted to know.

“Victoria,” I croaked obediently.

“Who is the president?” the doctor asked.

I couldn’t remember who the president was and I started to panic. “Is this school? Is this a test?”

“You’re in the hospital, Victoria. Do you remember coming to the hospital?”

It was a woman’s voice, not my mother, but someone I knew. I struggled to come up with her name. “Lotty?”

“Yes, Liebchen.” Relief flooded her voice. “Lotty. You’re in my hospital.”

“Beth Israel,” I whispered. “I can’t see.”

“We’ve bandaged your eyes to protect them from light for a few days. You got a bit scorched.”