Before Decker made it into the police car, Jacob caught up with him. “I know you’re extremely busy. But I wanted to say bye.”

Decker’s brain was buzzing with the immediacy. His eyes saw Jacob, but his attention was focused elsewhere. “Thanks for your help, Jacob, but you need to go.”

Jacob smiled, but was dispirited by the response. “I know. See you later. Be careful.”

Decker mussed his son’s hair and slipped into the driver’s seat of the cop car. By now the rutted pathway had become a parade of lights, a wall of vehicular metal. Recalling the approximate location of the pinpoint spot of yellow light—Decker used the sycamore as a landmark—he spotted the lean-to nestled in a copse of trees and scrub. It took about twenty minutes to get the cars in place, another twenty minutes to get the teams around the shack.

He tried the bullhorn. That proved to be nonproductive.

Next came the gas canisters shot through the windows. Glass shattered, spewing crystal shards and splinters into the night air. Smoke began to pour from the broken panes: dense, billowing gray clouds. Decker waited, but no one came through the doors. Maybe they were holed up in the bathroom. So he shot a canister through the small window in the bathroom.

Zero response.

With his recourses drying up, he sent in a weapons and bomb team to check the doors and windows for booby traps. After giving an all-clear sign, Decker masked up and charged through the front door. A wave of intense heat girdled his body and strangled his gullet. He felt his feet rock, unsteady as he felt dizzy…his head swimming in stars. He forced himself to breathe slowly and regularly.

Not too deep, not too shallow.

Because he wore a mask, his nostrils and mouth being in a closed environment, he could hear every gasp he took. He sweated profusely as he prowled.

Visibility was nonexistent. Between the heavy mask, the darkness, and the smoke, Decker couldn’t see more than an inch in front of him. He turned on the flashlight, but all that did was turn the dark gray smoke into light gray smoke. He groped the wall for a light switch, but couldn’t feel anything. His feet stumbled over something as he crept along. Abruptly, his legs hit something immobile and bulky at knee level, causing him to pitch forward, the flashlight slipping from his grip. He caught his balance, then bent down to feel what he had crashed into. His palms sank into something soft and bouncy.

You open the door and walk straight into a bed.

He was feeling a mattress.

The flashlight had hit the floor, sending a murky beam straight up to the ceiling. The dust particles reflected the photons, casting the room in an eerie, postnuclear glow. He still couldn’t see much. His fingers walked over the lumps of bedding, patting the blankets and sheets.