Metronia

Chapter 1

     Metronia knows war. But this war has no clear enemy.

     Metronia runs with everyone else, dodging debris and glass raining all around them. The ground is inexplicably rattling—earthquakes don’t happen here. Questions swarm on every face. They are too deep in their false sense of security and don’t know the earth cracks beneath their feet. Now the entire world is falling down, taking one person after another.

     This is home. Home should be safe. Metronia and Lucas just came back from a war-torn country, and they barely made it out alive. She looked forward to a break from the shelling and gunfire, of having her press vest make her a target. She would have a break from worrying so much about Lucas. He’s so much more careless than Metronia, and would do anything to get the groundbreaking photograph.

     Still encumbered by their overseas experience, this one slices her. Every sound threatens to blow her apart. Metronia can’t keep her trembles under control, and her legs won’t work like they should. Where a building chips away, she can see a bombed-out building. With metal beams falling and mangling on impact, she is under fire. Her brain is splitting between this war and that one. And there is no rest. Metronia is short-circuiting.

     “Focus,” she tells herself. The most dangerous thing in a dangerous situation is to lose focus to fear. She doesn’t have much strength left for survival, but she gives all she has. 

     Metronia screams for Lucas in the chaos. She feels a hand on hers, and finds his face — adrenaline-soaked and terrified. Like her, he is at the brink of shutting down, but struggling to stay conscious. He wasn’t like this in the field. The field kept him fired up. But he lets his guard down at home, and that’s when everything spills out. The memories, the experiences, the nightmare, the shakes. The drinking.

     “Lucas, no!” she screams. He, in his confusion like all others, is running towards a toppling building. “This way…”

     They run, but not before witnessing people disappear in the rubble. They were right behind them. Right behind them. The dust blinds and chokes them, and they can’t tell if the wave of stone and dust will take them next. Every muscle in Metronia’s body pops and burns until she can barely feel anything else.

     She sees Lucas pulling up a child, the mother covering her own face and running alongside them. The mother scrambles for a mask and produces one from the innards of her bag. She throws it onto her child’s face. Lucas makes a sharp turn for no reason Metronia can see. She follows anyway, ever bracing for pain.

     People everywhere are as stunned as they are, using anything they can to cover their faces. The trauma flashes, and Metronia can tell the people who were there for 9/11 and those who weren’t. Those who were there are all action and determination. Those who weren’t there, follow.

     A deafening crack claps somewhere in the distance. Through the fog, Metronia sees what looks like a wave and tastes saltwater in the air. But she won’t think of a tsunami. No- “Lucas, go!” They only managed another few feet before they heard another horrendous crash behind them.

     A man rips at his hair, phone in hand and screams, “That was the bridge! My wife—she was just on that bridge…” He’s banging into others now, stumbling to the ground. A woman leans over him, looks back to see what he’s talking about.

     Metronia can see the bay getting closer. The outline of The Freedom Tower still stands in the distance, but the water has annihilated all else. She stands, stunned, trying to comprehend what she sees in the fog. Lower Manhattan is gone.

     A woman wails into Metronia’s ear, tripping over her and landing square on her foot. The woman keeps shoving at her and screaming, “It’s the bridge! The bridge collapsed- “ She scrambles to her feet, running, her screams fading, “The Brooklyn Bridge collapsed!”

     Metronia is kissing the pavement with a foot on her back. Her lungs smashed into the ground, she’s crawling and choking when someone yanks hard on her arm, and her shoulder nearly pops from the socket. She protests until she sees a man pulling her up, saving her from the stampede. He sets her on the ground and drowns in the crowd.  

     “Lucas!” she cries and the shrillness of her voice scares even her. They are losing here. They are all losing.

     Metronia is crawling along the grass, quiet now since screams only fade into other screams. She can see the outline of the amphitheater in the sepia-toned distance. She is tasting blood and watching the structure implode like a sandcastle on the beach. It billows more dust and takes her breath.

     Lucas?

     Metronia climbs over something, and she prays it’s not a body. Her own body gives out, refuses to move another inch. She’s fading. Only then does the shaking stop.

     The heartbeat. It pounds in her skull, and she is waving from the pain. Her feet are cut and bleeding into her shoes. She looks up and sees the American Elms draped peacefully overhead, the sun trickling through the branches and leaves, leaving a theatrical light show on the grass.

     Time is still. Metronia can’t recollect how she got there or where she needs to go. She would move, but she can’t. Her brain is giving instruction, but her body doesn’t obey. Where are all the people? Why can’t she hear anymore?

     She attempts to move and this time her body responds. On her feet, her muscles sear with every move.

     “Lucas?” It’s a croak that no one can hear. “Lucas?” she tries again. Metronia keeps on until she sees a wing in the sky. She comes to the angel statue in Central Park, and wonders how many times she’s passed this thing and never really looked at it. It’s creepy now — a stone angel face like a tombstone. But it’s nice to lean on, keeps her upright while she figures out what to do.

     “Shit.” She only brought her phone/wallet thing to have lunch with Lucas. Now it’s gone. Think. Where would he assume she’d go? The office. No way to get there. So many sirens.

     Everywhere she looks, people stand in a stupor, missing this crack in time. She wants the sirens to stop, but nothing can quiet the sound of a city dying.

     Metronia looks around for any sign of Lucas, and the shaking begins again. She grips the base of the statue, but someone screams at her to run. So she does.

     She manages a few feet before the angel face is coming to meet her, growing larger and larger.

#

     “Over here!” Metronia wakes to a gruff and panicked voice. She hears the sound of an engine and chains. “Hook it there.” Metronia feels a rough, calloused hand on her forehead. “You ok there, Sweetheart? We’re gonna get you out. You just sit tight.” 

     Brooklyn? Queens? Bronx, she decides. Definitely an Irish Bronx accent.

     “Sweetheart?” she jolts from a whining saw. “What’s your name, Sweetheart?” 

     Definitely Bronx. 

     “Get on over here. She’s not answering me.” 

     The world spins and shrinks by half to her. She sees the stone face of the angel statue, nose to nose with her. The grainy eyes multiply and dance. She cannot move, and only sees stone feathers canopied over her. “Where is Lucas?”

     The man disappears, and she hears him hollering commands, “Pull back, now up, over! Over, damn it, what are you doing? You trying to kill her? Up!”

     The angel’s face lifts away and diminishes to the sky. There’s too much sky. 

      “Just stay calm. We’re going to help you,” a beautiful face says. She reaches up to feel those words. She follows the curve of his newly born smile with her finger. 

     “Say that again,” she says.

     “You’ll be ok. Just stay calm.” 

     “Sir, the ground broke. Did you know it broke?” She runs her fingers from his lips down to his uniform. “A fireman. Sir, is this my blood?” The firefighter’s face falls into neutrality and he juts his chin out to another.

     “Get over here. She’s not talking straight.” 

     She gasps at the pain waving in her skull. She tries to make more words, but they won’t come. 

     “Ok, set her down over here. We don’t have any ambulances back yet,” the uniformed man says. She’s settled upon a sheet on the ground and she flinches at the hard surface under her. “Just take it easy,” he says.

     She feels her eyelids being pried back, hands pressing around her midsection and ribs. There are pins of light scorching her brain and burning metal smells.

     “Ma’am, just stay calm. We have help coming.” He raises his face and yells, “Michael! Joph, go get Michael. I don’t feel any broken bones, but he should get over here.” 

     Metronia winces from the noise making her head thunder. “Did you get Lucas? Sir, get him. He was beside me.”

     “There was no one beside you, Ma’am. Please stay calm. Can you tell me your name?” 

     “He’s got dark hair and green eyes and he’s tall. There is a scar on his face. He got hurt. He takes pictures. I write stories. War stories. But we go home tomorrow.” It takes everything she has left to motion. “He’s like this tall. He’s got a scar right here.” She runs her finger down her face and along her jawline. 

     “Tell me your name, Ma’am.” 

     Metronia reaches up and clanks the buckles on his jacket. “You’re a fireman, right?” 

     “I am. My name is Chatam. We’re getting you help.” He wags his arm around and the buckles clank some more. “Joph, where is he?” 

     “He’s a little busy, Chatam. I already told him,” Joph says and leans down over Metronia. She cups her face gently, but her voice is stern. “Sweetheart, you hear me? Can you hear me?”

     Annoying. “Yes, I hear you. Stop yelling.” 

     “No broken bones, you say?” she asks Chatam. He shakes his head. 

     “She’s pretty cut up, though. And still stunned.” 

     “I can hear you,” Metronia says. Joph puts her hand over her forehead. 

     “We’re going to help you…”

     “… what are you doing?” 

     Metronia opens her eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she demands. Pain is melting away. Fear subsides. The world is getting more vibrant. Joph, her face heart-shaped and androgynous, smiles at her. Metronia sees her eyes as hazel at first, then brown. Metronia’s mind is trying to categorize her, but she can’t. She’s like morphine. She’s nothing but beautiful. 

     “I love you,” Metronia says. Chatam and Joph laugh kindly. “No, I’m serious. I love you. I love you both so much…”

     “She sounds drunk,” Chatam whispers.

     “I can hear you! Jeez, I told you that.”

     “I’m Jophiel. But everyone calls me Joph. We have a doctor on his way. He’s just a little swamped right now. You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me?” Her smile broadens, and it’s the most incredible smile Metronia has ever seen. “Now, what is your name?” 

     Finally, “Metronia.” 

     Relief colors Chatam’s face, and Joph’s eyes sparkle. “Good. That’s good. Here’s the doctor. You can call him Michael.” 

     They hover over her amid people scurrying, crying loved ones’ names, and wails of emergency vehicles and machinery.

     Michael puts his hand on her stomach, and Metronia meets him there with her own hands. He is striking too, with kind, deep-set eyes, and creases in his skin that only add to his handsomeness.

     “I’m Michael,” he says in a rich voice. “I’m going to push a bit here. Anything?” He moves his hands slightly right. “Here?” 

     She doesn’t answer him, only stares and lets the tears come. Every spot hurts until he places his hands there. Metronia dares not speak. It may make this all go away. 

     He feels about her ribs, lifts her arms, and asks her to move her feet. Finally, he smiles, and it shoots another wave of warmth through her. He brushes the back of his hand across her cheek. 

     “I think you’re ok, Kiddo. Are you having any more pain? Your head?”

     “What did you do?” she darts her eyes. “Tell me.” 

     Joph laughs and pushes Metronia’s hair from her face. “I’m glad we found you when we did, Metronia. Your color is coming back. Do you think you can stand?” Michael offers his hand and lifts her effortlessly. 

     “You feel steady?” he asks.

     Metronia catches sight of the destruction all around her. All the surrounding structures are half missing or gone entirely. She can see the river.

     “We need to help these people,” Metronia says. “I need to find Lucas.” She fumbles around in her pockets again before she remembers. “I have nothing on me. I lost my phone.”

     “Don’t worry about that,” Michael says. “You’re safe.” He glances at Joph before sinking his eyes into Metronia. “You’re looking for a Lucas, you say?” 

     “He was wearing a blue and red shirt this morning. He has dark hair and green eyes…” 

     “… Metronia,” Michael says, and it cuts off her air. “Go with Jophiel and Chatam. There’s a tent set up for the injured. Take her over there. Help her.” He turns, and she watches him push through the crowd.

     “It’s over here,” Joph says. Chatam places his hand on her shoulder, but already his attention is called away to another woman being brought near, hammocked in a white plastic sheet. They lower the woman and her eyes roll into her head. Metronia takes her in and her nerves erupt.

     “Just look ahead,” Joph says, and she’s straddling between staying with Metronia and helping the woman bleeding at her feet.

     “I’m ok,” Metronia says. “I am. Just help her.” 

     “I’ll come find you…” Joph says and shifts focus to the injured woman.

     Metronia turns and sees the makeshift tent in the distance. Her insides seize. “Don’t let me find Lucas there,” she prays. Step after painful step, others bash into her, sending her stumbling. 

     “Whoa there,” a man says and grabs her arm. His face is mean-looking and his tone is scolding. He looks at her and his face softens.  

      “You’re covered in blood. Look, I’ll get you over to one of these personnel. They got ambulances trying to get through down there.”

      “I don’t want an ambulance,” Metronia says to the ground. “I want to go.”

     “Ma-am…”

     “Don’t. I’m ok.” 

     “I’m going to have to insist that you stay here. You don’t look so good.”

     The man hangs on tight when Metronia sways. He protests her leaving, but the next round of injured is coming by, and they are far worse off than she is. Metronia is quickly forgotten. It takes all her strength to make her body turn and look away. The paramedics behind her say gut-wrenching things and she is pushing on until their words fade.

     Her strength returns in spurts, and she inhales deeply to keep walking. Metronia makes her way across the cement and finally to the street, where a wall of dread knocks her. She sees the rubble there, a shoe lying nearby, a purse right at her feet. Hearts are broken or not beating at all.

     Focus. She leans on her breath again and comes forward to join the officers and firefighters tossing bricks and metal pieces. No one stops her and no one cares. So many names.

     Her heart pulses at what she might find. There are people in there, and they can’t breathe. She fears her heart is somewhere in that rubble, and it skips with every removed piece. 

     Metronia cups another brick and another. She’s tunneling, waiting for sound. She’s begging God — help these people. Get me to Lucas. She looks up and around as she works, expecting to see him in the clearing dust. He will help. He will. Her head spins and she catches herself. Focus. Put it aside. And with shaking hands, she removes the small pieces of debris that she can handle. She watches two officers lift a portion of wall, then more metal. She stops cold.

     That scar. Lucas showed it to her proudly when the stitches came out, too happy to brag that he’d have a souvenir of his surviving a shelling. He pretended to be a badass, but she knew. They made light of what they could because they couldn’t face the truth. The truth was that he was literally inches from death. Had he not moved when he did, he wouldn’t be here. Eventually, he didn’t seem to have any fear left. Until today.

     “Will you stop messing with that scar? It’s still fresh,” she’d said to him then. She wouldn’t tell him, but she was still shaking from seeing his face split open.

     “Oh, come on. I’m alive. That’s all that matters,” he laughed. “Look, it’s like a crescent moon. I like it.” 

     “Lucas…” She hated the constant chatter about that stupid scar. Metronia had scars too—up her side, on the back of her head where the hair won’t grow again. She didn’t look at them because she didn’t want to remember how they got there.

     “Hey — come on, don’t cry…”

     “Don’t joke about this one,” she said. “I look at that and I remember bleeding and remember that awful hospital.”

     “I know, Mettie. I’ve seen you too. Running towards a bomb…”

     “I ran to a family. They were almost out of there.”

     “And what good did it do?” Lucas said, and she knew it was the alcohol talking. The mother didn’t make it, but her little boy did. He had wounds to his back, Metronia to the back of her head.

     “The boy survived. You know that.”

     “He would have made it to us without you going towards that building.”

     It was no use talking to him when he was like that, so she didn’t. She had thought of that little boy every day since she’d seen him, but she didn’t know his name. She didn’t want to leave him there, and so broached the idea of adopting him with Lucas.

     “They’ll never let you take him to the states,” Lucas said. “And besides, we aren’t married, remember? I doubt we’d be seen as fit parents, what, ‘living in sin’ and all,” he scoffed.

     Metronia is screeching at the sight of the scar now, his mark of pride dull with grime. She’s begging God for help and kicking away the bricks. The strangers are matching her intent to free him and yanking what they can away from his face. 

     “Help him,” she whimpers. It’s not fast enough. She stops at the command of men in uniforms and entwines her fingers in Lucas’ hand. “They’re going to help you,” she says. “Is he ok?” she cracks. “Is he?”

     The sun trickles down on them, and she sees the rip in his gut.

     “We can’t move him—just hold on…” They’re shouting things she never wanted to hear. She’s holding onto his hand, kissing his face full of blood. 

     “They’re going to get you out of here, ok? Just breathe. Lucas—look at me. Don’t close your eyes.” 

     “Mettie…” 

     “… just stay calm. They’re bringing more help.” She catches the eyes of an EMT and, though he works quickly and methodically, she sees no fervor in his movements. Metronia swallows hard. “He’ll be ok, right?” Curiosity flickers at why they haven’t forced her to leave. 

     “Mettie,” Lucas says again, and she dismisses the fearful thinking in favor of hope. “Mettie, hurry.”

     “They are. They’re going to hurry…”

     “No. You, Mettie. Please.” The words are a whisper against her cheek and she leans in further to hear him. “It’s done now.”

     “Lucas, don’t do that. Just hang on.”

     His childlike “no” rips her apart. “I can’t.” 

     The EMTs bustle and clank things, yet Lucas is no better for it. She puts her hand over the hole in his gut, sure she can keep him together, and if she concentrates, knows she can make this right. 

     “Mettie, please,” Lucas cries. It rattles her to the core. He doesn’t cry. “Get me out of here.” He squeezes her hand. “Do what you need to.” He digs his fingers into her arm.

     “Metronia—just make it all stop. I can’t be here.”

     “He’s delirious,” she tells the paramedic. “What’s taking so long?” Metronia sees his mouth moving in response, but she can’t hear anything over the thud in her head. She holds him as best as she can, only letting go when men stronger than she lifts him gingerly from the mess, and lies him on the ground for examination. 

     “Pray,” a man in blue gloves whispers. Metronia cradles Lucas’ head and stays clear of the people clamoring around his gut.

     “Mettie—don’t let them. It can’t be this way.”

     “Just rest, ok? We’ll get some help in here.”

     Metronia catches paramedics pity glance at one another. I see you, she wants to shout. Metronia’s seen that expression before. She’d written stories about life slipping from a face.

     She snaps, “Where’s the ambulance?” 

     “There’s nothing they can do,” Lucas says, and it stills the moment. “They should go.” 

     “No!” 

     “They need to go.”

     “We won’t leave,” a man assures her. “We’re short on emergency vehicles at the moment. There are some cabs trying to get through to transport.” He drops a packet with tubes in it, and he retrieves it with a shaking hand. 

     Lucas sinks his fingers into her flesh until she’s looking away from the ground and facing reality. “Let me go,” he says.

     Her head is a fifty-pound weight swaying without her permission. “Stop it.” Metronia gently pulls him to her heart and is mindful of his comfort. She feels his blood drip over what is already drying in the cracks and creases of her hands. The smell is in his hair, and it’s smeared across her lips. 

     “Metronia, please,” Lucas says. “Hurry.”

     She feels her senses leave her and all rational thought goes bad. If this is all she’ll have left of him, then she’ll hang on like this forever.

     “Mettie…” She feels a sputter in her chest, and her heart skips a beat. She swallows hard and the recesses of her mind are summoning her. 

     “What do you want me to do?” she says, but he only looks at her.

     There’s nothing left of her. Metronia can’t feel her body around her. She stares at his shoulder and waits for something to push her—something to take over. She closes her eyes. 

     “That’s it,” he says. “The others are here. Trust them.” He pulls her to him, her forehead to his. She can feel him fade.

     Metronia tumbles into resignation. The fight is over and the hope is gone before she can get too attached. It thuds in her stomach and burns her chest. She breathes in the last bit of this life in him.

      “I will.”

     Metronia brings her lips close to his forehead. She feels his body trembling, and it’s his last bit of breath filled with pain that is the push she’s waiting for. Metronia closes her eyes to her own pain cracking and spreading across her chest. She comes closer, presses her lips into his forehead, and regret overtakes her. Time can’t be reversed, and this can’t be undone. The finality sends her into a convulsion, and she’s sure her body will fall apart around her.

     She feels his heat-dissipating and can see his skin graying. She sits there in the street like a scared little girl holding a baby doll, rocking him and kissing his face. The air around her changes and the pain leaves her slowly, leaving her empty.

     Lucas slides down her body and she grips him tighter. Metronia’s skin contracts and her veins throb. This is bigger than one death. 

     The world goes on, but it shouldn’t. There is a future, but first, there is darkness. Until the future claims her, she will stay here with the last bit of Lucas and cradle death in her hands.  

#

     Men come for Lucas. She swats at the air in front of her, and they know she still cannot see them. They raise white sheets to shield the scene.

     “I’m sorry,” Metronia says.

     They can give her no more time. “Ma’am, you need to let go now.”

     “No.”

     “Ma’am, please. This isn’t… we have to remove him.”

     “Where will you take him?” She imagines the refrigerator trucks would be back from the pandemic. Those horrors on the ready.

     She jumps at boots clicking on the pavement and blocks Lucas’ face from the man standing over her. “We’ll make sure he’s treated right,” he says. “You just gotta let him go, all right? Ma’am?” 

     Metronia stares up into his face, and the fight goes out of her. She nods, and they quickly pull Lucas away. It leaves her cold and the panic is ruthless.

     Desperation fuels her, and she fumbles to feel where they’ve taken him. The tips of her fingers meet him as she crawls on the ground. She finds Lucas’ arm and burrows under it. Metronia curls up against his side like she’s done every night. She waits for the warmth to return, but it doesn’t. Metronia closes her eyes and believes if she sleeps, this will go away. If she dreams, they can escape.

     No one moves. The faces bear down on them until one man gives in, turning and bursting into a sob.

     “Don’t cry,” she says, and she closes her eyes for the dream, strokes Lucas’ heart. The dream is darkness, and he’s not there. Cold returns, and she folds her arms over her body to fend off the chill. A man lifts her up, and she sees a metal tag that marks him ‘Officer Stevens.’ 

     She sees they aren’t rushing with Lucas. They bring around plastic lined with a zipper. The kind heart called Officer Stevens sets her down on a row of suit jackets and shirts others have put down for her. They ask her questions. 

     “Are you family?” a man asks. 

     She begs her heart to stop beating. “No.”

     He asks for information and she utters names, but has no numbers. 

     “I’m sorry,” the man says. “We just want to get the info. I’m so sorry… Sir!” he says to an approaching man. “Do you need help with something?”

     Michael comes beside her, and the questioner silences, reluctantly retreats. He takes her hand, and when there is only a limp reaction, he sets it back on her leg. He glances at Joph. “Where is Raphael? We need him.” 

     “He’s all over the city, I’m sure. You’ll have to do it.” 

     Michael lets out a sigh. He places his hand over Metronia’s heart and she doesn’t even blink. He closes his eyes and breathes, pressing harder through her labored breath. Joph does her best to shield her from the curious stares, and she puts her hand on Metronia’s head.

     Michael says, “Can you stand up?” He keeps a hold of her while she attempts, helps her get to her feet, and watches her sway from foot to foot.  

     “Metronia…”

     “I’m fine. I’m fine! Stop touching me. I gotta get home.” 

     She stumbles sideways. Her insides push against her skin like an animal wanting out of its cage. There is a shift within her, a thought that this isn’t worth it. None of it is. Before light, there is dark. She is no longer patient with dark. 

     She turns and runs directly into Joph. Her pretty face pisses Metronia off, and she steps around her. 

     “We know of a place where you can stay,” Joph says. “It’s near here. It’s just a pub, but it’s standing. A few of us will stay there.” Metronia looks at a crack in the sheet wall. She sees the last glimpse of Lucas’ face before he’s hidden away. 

     “I can’t talk about this.”

     Michael reaches for her, but Metronia jerks away like he’s an insect on her skin. “Just come with us. You shouldn’t wander around in this mess. It’s not safe.” But she flings herself away, recoils from the pack of onlookers waiting for word from the scene. She keeps going, shuffling her feet through dirt and glass. There’s a dingy film of fear on everything and everyone. 

     “I have to get home,” she says again. 

     “No trains, Lady.” A voice says. “Streets are impassable.” 

     She’s falling inside. Heat floods up and over her face.

     “He’s gone,” she gasps. “Lucas is gone.” Her breath stutters, and she winds around the moving forms and colors before her. She awakens and startles at the blood on her arms, that last bit of Lucas caked and dried on her. He was alive this morning…. he was just talking to me. She rubs her arms together and whimpers. Her attempts to remove the blood are futile and she works with increasing alarm, scraping her nails down her skin. She sees the blood has invaded her clothes and she tears at those too, clamping her jaw and crying when she doesn’t have the energy to get them off. She is trapped in her skin, and trapped in a hell she never thought she’d face. 

     Metronia had seen plenty of blood. But it is his blood that breaks her, and this moment changes her. Metronia locks her elbows to her sides, turning her hands up to the sky. It is a question to God, a silent plea for an explanation. 

     Faces come into focus, and she can see the horror and sadness in them. She shows them her arms, holds her hands out, and begs, “Get this off me.” She gives another yank on her shirt and the threads tear. Her voice crescendos. “Get it off me!” People back away and her panic grows into agony, erupts from her gut. Metronia stretches her arms out and pushes her wrists up to show God what she’s left with. She shows Him the blood. She shows Him the blame and guilt on her. It is a confession. She didn’t save Lucas.

     People keep their distance, too afraid to come near and too enthralled to look away. A human is turned inside out, and the curiosity is too strong. Through them, she sees herself and the role she’s played in this world. She thought her efforts were good—bringing the struggle of others to light. But now she sees she was an invader. She is the exposed one now, the sideshow act. The lesson brings her to her knees. 

     See this blood? Do you see? But all she manages out loud is the guttural sound of anguish.

     She keeps her arms and palms turned up, keeps her mark of shame apparent to everyone coming by. There are amateur photographers and journalists swarming. Their ideas are churning—this photo in color to get the full effect. “Grief in Central Park” or “Woman Mourns in Streets.” The delicious possibilities abound, and they eye the people with camera phones. 

     One photographer shakes his head in disgust. “That’ll be all over the internet tomorrow,” he says and checks the battery level on his camera. He looks at a woman standing nearby, crying at Metronia’s pain. “She’ll become the face of this tragedy. Just wait and see.” 

     Metronia wraps her arms around her shoulders, and curls away from the cameras. A man comes inches away from her to get a video of her tears. She brings her face to her knees and hides behind her hands. 

     “Get away from her!” a man barks. There are more words exchanged and scuffling feet. She puts her hands over her head and presses her arms to her ears. “Everyone! Just leave her alone!” 

     Metronia feels hands on her arms and they’re pulling her out of her shell. “It’s all right, they’re gone now. Assholes. Do you need medical help…”

     “No!” she snaps. “No more of that.” She looks up into a familiar face.

     “I’m Chatam. Dave Chatam, but people call me by my last name. I treated you earlier. You didn’t get very far…

     “…I found Lucas,” she replies flatly. “He died.”

     Chatam purses his lips, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He sits on the sidewalk in front of her. “Listen, I know of a place that’s sheltering people. Just around the corner here. It’s my sister’s pub. A few people are staying there.” 

     Metronia only hears a mumble. Something pops in her chest, and there is wonderment in her suddenly silent heart. She closes her eyes and falls forward, and Chatam is diving to keep her head from cracking on the pavement.