When I convulsed into consciousness I nearly fell off the edge of the couch. I forgot where I was and then remembered in two incestuous seconds, the sickest part of waking up. The zooming sound of aircraft had shocked me awake. Helicopters.

Sleeping in my own bed had felt like a form of denial—that would have been too normal, too routine, for what was currently happening, so I’d dozed on the sofa. Part of me, the part housed inside a box in my brain that I never opened, held a hazy impression of another violation that felt similar to the current one in scope and in terror, and from that experience I knew that if I obeyed the law of whatever action was in motion, if I let the chaos wash over me, and if I did not call its attention to the things I cherished, or associate it in my own head with anything familiar, I might be allowed to return to the life I knew. I might be spared its full wrath.

I went outside and looked up. The rain had stopped, at least. The sky was still roiling with dense, gray clouds that shrouded the day in gloom, and the wind was up. One helicopter flew west, toward the town at the foot of the mountain, and another helicopter passed it, heading east.

Stepping farther out, leaning over the balcony, I looked around and saw some broken windows. Debris everywhere, water pooling. And Chrissy and Janet were still missing, I could feel it. Where had they gone?

The emergency lights were still out. In the distance, the bus was still stopped in its tracks.

Oh god. Disaster.

Weakness overwhelmed me. Vertigo threatened. I went back inside and sat on the floor, dragging the nearest flowerpot toward me in case I was sick. For the first time, Apartment 201 looked like any other place on a morning full of tragedy—dreary plaster walls and faded furniture, dated wallpaper belonging to a bygone time. There was no comfort here. The image of Krystal from the night before came back to me. She was standing in the driving rain, looking up at the house, waiting for me to answer the door.

My chest tightened. The world I had escaped had returned to crush me in its fist. My nostalgic dream was disintegrating in front of my eyes.

I felt deranged. I wanted my roommates, I wanted the dog. I wanted people who could never be brought back. The bird had spent the night rigor-mortis-ing on the balcony inside its charred cage. And sleep had not calmed me. I had not, as I’d pep-talked myself into believing the night before, “collected my thoughts.” Jack had abandoned me. I was Bonnie again, a scabless wound.

I stood up slowly, still feeling ill, and walked out again. The helicopters were beyond my line of sight but I could hear their rotors. I clung to the balcony railing and shrieked. It felt like progress, like I was doing something. Then I leaned over and puked for real, and watched it land on the concrete below. It was a curious brown, the color of the roux I had eaten the night before.