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concentrate. I start back down the aisle, looking for a bus map or something hanging on the walls, asking no one in particular if they know where we are—but there’s so much shell shock in the damn bus that no one answers me. We take a few more sharp turns, slowing down a little each time. The driver seems to know these streets well and keeps us moving. Eventually, we’re shooting down Houston. And I keep my eyes on the signs at every block we pass until I finally see a cross street I recognize.
    Bowery. It’s almost a straight shot to where Mom works if I follow it downtown. Once I met her at therestaurant and we walked all the way up to Central Park just because it was a nice day, and I remember taking Bowery for a part of the trip.
    I’m about to yell for the bus driver to stop when he slams on the brakes anyway. A few people scream, and it’s only then that I see it: one of the alien ships sits in the intersection a block ahead of us. I don’t see any pale monsters around, but still, they’ve got to be close. The driver looks around nervously as the passengers grow louder, people yelling at him to go, or turn, or reverse, or that this is the end and we’re all going to die. Abandoned cars and debris cut off the side streets on our right, so the driver makes a quick decision and guns it, turning left onto First Avenue, shouting something back to the rest of us about going another way around the ship. His hands are gripped on the steering wheel and sweat is pouring down his face. I think the dude’s about to lose it. But more importantly, we’re heading uptown now, farther away from Wall Street, farther away from Mom. If I can just get back to Bowery, I know how to get down to her.
    And so when he slows the bus to turn right on Fourth Street, I take a deep breath and step to the empty space where I blew the doors off the bus earlier.
    â€œGood luck in Brooklyn,” I murmur.
    I jump onto the road, stumbling a few steps before slamming into the side of a parked car and catchingmyself. The bus doesn’t stop. It just drives off without me.
    I make sure that I’m not hurt or anything, and then I start to sprint, back towards Bowery, hoping that the aliens from the ship we just saw are busy somewhere off in another direction. I’m getting closer and closer to Mom. Step by step. Inch by inch. But it gets harder and harder. As I turn the corner, my lungs are full of fire. My heart pounds, and my legs scream out for me to stop. On top of that, the throbbing in my head is starting to get to me. It’s a weird kind of pain I’ve never felt before. I’m not even sure it’s pain, more like a building pressure behind my eyes.
    What’s happening?
    The streets are pretty empty, and suddenly I feel so alone. Where is everyone? Maybe this area has been evacuated. Or maybe . . .
    What if the aliens from that ship have been through here already and rounded everyone up?
    Doubt starts to creep into my head. I’m finally getting closer, but what am I supposed to do if she’s not there? What do I do if she’s gone?
    Tears sting the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill as I approach a big intersection. That’s when I see a dozen Mogadorians marching into the street, and my whole pity party comes to an abrupt end. I stop, almost falling down. I put my arms out, trying to balance, and end up letting off some kind of force wavethat knocks a trash can into the street.
    Crap.
    I dart inside the nearest building—a bank—hoping the aliens didn’t notice. I back away from the door slowly, keeping my eyes on it, my hands stretched out in front of me, ready to use my powers. It’s pretty dark inside and my eyes slowly start to adjust. I wonder if the lights are off, or if the electricity’s been knocked out. I should have been paying more attention to stuff like that on the street. I should have—
    â€œUhh . . . ,” a voice comes