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he’s eighteen at most, with a skinny face and dark eyes that look the tiniest bit sad with the way they turn down at the corners. He wears scrubs and looks healthy enough until I notice the sweat beaded on his temples and along the part shaved into his fade. His arms move to clutch his midsection and he breathes shallowly.
    “I’m not a nurse, but I can get one for you. Are you okay? You don’t look okay.”
    “I’m all right. I just need some water.”
    “That I can do,” I say. “What’s your name so I can find your cup?”
    “Everyone calls me Lucky. But I think it says my last name, Michaels.” I run to find his cup and then watch him drink. The sheen of perspiration on his face is already drying by the time he hands it back. “Thanks.”
    “Are you here by yourself?” I ask.
    His eyes seek out the visitors who sleep on the floor beside gurneys, but he shrugs. “Yeah.”
    “Did you get in touch with anyone?”
    “Nah, I couldn’t get through.”
    I don’t want to pester him, but he’s just a kid. He needs a mother or a father or someone to be with him. “I’m Sylvie. Why are you here?”
    “Kidney stones.”
    “It looks like it hurts,” I say. “Maybe they should call you something other than Lucky.”
    He finally smiles and, when he does, his eyes turn up and he looks like the kid he is. “It’s a little better now.”
    “Well, that’s good.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
    He nods. A deep rumble penetrates the subfloor of the hospital. Another follows. I take hold of a gurney, scaring the shit out of its old-lady occupant. The next two tremors aren’t as strong, and by now the entire cafeteria has woken. I run to Grace, who sits with her good hand braced on the wall, eyes unblinking.
    “Oh, my God,” she says.
    I sink to my hands and knees as the floor shakes again. There’s nothing to grab onto in any sense of the word. Nothing to stabilize the shaking of the room. No clinging to hope that the plan will change. They’ve done it. They’ve really and truly just killed us all.

Chapter 5
    The nurses hand out food that was made yesterday. I’ve barely eaten, but I’m full after one bite of a tasteless sandwich. The rumbling and shaking finally stopped, and it’s been quiet in here ever since. I don’t imagine it’s quiet outside, though. I imagine it’s anything but quiet.
    Across the room, Jorge talks to Bart. He points to the ceiling and then jiggles his keys. Bart sets down his phone. It was attached to his ear all night, but the same people who were supposed to get him out of the city couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer his pleas for help. Godspeed and good luck, they said, before they stopped answering.
    “Excuse me, everyone?” Bart calls. It was close to silent, but now you could hear a pin drop. Or a bomb. “We’re going to go up to the roof to check out the situation. We’ll give a report when we come down.”
    “Can I go?” Craig asks, though he’s already heading for the hall in his jacket.
    After a moment’s hesitation, Bart nods. I jump to my feet; if he gets to go, then we get to. Grace is with me on this, I know, because she has her coat in hand. The Giants jersey couple is up, too.
    Bart looks to Jorge, who says, “All right, we’ll take the people who are well.”
    Maria confers with a few nurses, then places her stethoscope on a table and joins our group.
    Jorge unlocks the service elevator call buttons. As we rise, he tells us that most of the top floor and the last few flights of the closest stairwell are clear. We step from the elevator into a hall with a few office doors. It ends at the same type of double doors as on my mother’s floor.
    There are several elevator banks, positioned in different hospital wings, and Grace and I were lucky enough to be in a part of the hospital where we could be rescued. Others weren’t. The hospital’s layout confused me when I arrived to find my mother, as it varies floor to