Rainbow explosions pop harmlessly against the low gray clouds in an orange fourth of July skyscape. Orange? The ordinary black backdrop of this patriotic evening has, for the moment, been replaced. I look down at the brick floor of my patio, thinking about nothing at all, my mind a post-apocalyptic-ly boring landscape.
"Oh my god..." Kelly's stunned whisper-shout reaches my ears through a thick haze, "...they've dropped the bomb."
My face snaps vertical. I've always feared nuclear holocaust. There are a few ways I don't want to die, and this is one of them.
There's no need to scan the horizon - I immediately ascertain that many miles in the distance, beneath the sparkling rockets, is an ominous ashen mushroom cloud.
"Where is that?" the words practically dribble off my lips. I'm thinking about which places might be appealing to blow up, wondering why L.A. wasn't the first choice. I'm worried for Kelly, and my family. I'm worried that I won't survive, and the darkly ironic implications of America's national holiday being nuked are not lost on me.
I want to reassure Kelly, but no words come out.