Chloe's Watcher

By Cheri Gillard

Chloe’s best friend, Kaitlyn, is lost in the past. If her new Nephilim boyfriend, Horace, doesn’t get back with her soon, Chloe is going to go crazy. They need to get on with their lives, without all the demonic drama they’ve had. It’s taking way longer than time travel should. During the agonizing wait, she discovers her timeline isn’t like it’s supposed to be. Not only is her family changed, but her ex-boyfriend, the guy she was so over, doesn’t remember they broke up and is finally treating her like she’d always hoped for.

As she begins her senior year of high school with both Kaitlyn and Horace missing, and with confusing changes all around, she realizes something else has shifted. She is being watched. Always. And though she’s aware someone is constantly just out of sight, stalking her from the shadows, she can’t know the hatred that has propelled her Watcher from the foxholes of war, forward through time, to the ultimate moment when he plans to use Chloe to reclaim his lost power and exact the revenge that has kept him breathing through decades of exile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheri Gillard
• Release date: Mar 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311049230

Cheri Gillard

Award-winning author Cheri Gillard has been a freelance writer and editor for twenty-five years, working for several publishing houses and companies as a writer or editor for projects, books, magazines, and curricula. She earned the coveted IndieB.R.A.G Medallion for "Chloe's Guardian," Book 1 of the Nephilim Redemption series, as well as winning several other awards for her fiction over her writing career. For several years, she was a judge for the Paul Gillette Memorial fiction writing contest. Before writing, she was an obstetric and NICU registered nurse, but she hung up her nurse's cap when she gave birth to quadruplets. She blogs about life raising quadruplets and shares photos at cheri_and_quads on Instagram. She lives with her family in Colorado.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1562: Stonehaven, Scotland

The fire turned to smoke, the forest went dark, and Kaitlyn got up from praying on wobbly legs. She backed into a tree. She pressed against it and wrapped her arms backwards around it, hoping its solid trunk would help her body stop shaking. She wasn’t going to turn her back to where Billy’s lifeless body lay next to the headless witch. The witch’s severed head was still making Kaitlyn gag, but at least she was farther away from it now. She was not going to move until Horace came back. He’d promised he would be right back. Time travel meant she shouldn’t need to wait. No matter what happened, he could just come back to this moment in time, like he’d promised, and get her.

Horace? Can you hear me? Horatius? Where are you? I’d like to go home now. Please?

The forest was so quiet. The sticks in the big fire stopped popping and sizzling. The circle of seven small, different-colored flames had died down by the time the witch tried to cut off Horace’s head and got her own chopped off instead. The weird smell the fires had made was gone, chased away by the wind coming through the trees. Now Kaitlyn smelled only the smoke of an old campfire mixed with the thick, wet leaves on the ground. And blood.

The smell of the blood was impossible to ignore. It was all over her skirt, where she’d used it to wipe the blood off Billy’s face. And where she’d knelt in the puddle of blood next to him and Horace before Billy died and Horace exploded into his glowing angel self and went after her best friend, Cello. The blood-soaked fabric had stuck to her shin, drying there like a big scab. But she wasn’t going to let go of the tree to unstick it. She wasn’t going to move at all again until Horace came back and took her home. Like he’d promised to do.

But he didn’t come.

Kaitlyn was panting. Her throat tightened and she gagged again. She closed her eyes and tried to meditate. She listened for a sound to focus on. No birds, no crickets, no frogs. Nothing. The witch or the fires or the demons or the killing or Horace’s explosion must have scared all the animals away. The air shifted and the leaves rattled up high in the trees that reached out the top of the forest. The branches squeaked. She concentrated on them, picturing them bending in the wind. They made the only sound. Any second she would hear Horace return. She strained her ears for his footsteps in case he had materialized farther away and was running to her. The pitch black in front of her face was confusing. She blinked her eyes hard to make sure they were open. She wanted to see him the second he appeared. She listened. She watched. She waited.

And still he didn't come.

After what had to be at least an hour, her pulse felt normal again and the shaking had stopped. Her legs were stiff and cold. At some point, without noticing, she’d let go of the tree trunk behind her and her arms were wrapped around herself in a hug. She wasn’t listening for Horace anymore. Once or twice her eyelids drooped and she nearly fell asleep. But she wasn’t going to let that happen. She was going to stay awake and be ready when Horace came.

A while later, Kaitlyn decided it wouldn’t be so bad to sit down. Keeping her back to the tree, she sank to the ground. It felt good to sit. And to close her eyes for just a second.

***

Present Day: Denver, Colorado

Chloe, Seventeen Years Old

Only the concrete steps, the broken flower pot, and one side of the porch of the burned-out shell of Nana’s house were recognizable. Blistered boards, charred and textured like snake skin, stuck up at odd angles as if someone had played a giant game of Pick-Up Sticks. The bottom two-thirds of the charred staircase went up to nothing in the middle of the cremated house. The leaves and branches of the tree outside of where Chloe’s bedroom window used to be were singed black like they’d leaned in too close to see the fire inside.

The sight of it sent a shiver up Chloe’s spine even though she’d just spoken to her mom and knew everyone was safe, that no one had been home. She remembered through a dream-like fog the balls of fire that Horace’s father had hurled at the house, the demons that had chased Horace, Kaitlyn, and Chloe away into other dimensions and times where they couldn’t help save her family. Had it really happened? Had the past been changed? Because her family had been inside before. But now, they hadn’t. Something had changed, but did that mean everything was different?

She wanted to know more about what had happened. The old neighbor with the terrier she and Horace had talked to had walked back up the street. He was still out in his yard tossing a ball to his dog. With Horace gone to get Kaitlyn, maybe she had a minute to go ask the neighbor more before they returned. The shock of everything had left her too brainless to ask better questions before when he’d come by and told them about her family being away on a trip that apparently kept them safe from the fire.

The old man lived five houses away. Chloe walked toward him on the uphill sidewalk, which was cracked and chipped from years of snow and salt and melting and freezing. The neighbor was wearing Horace’s Stetson hat, which he’d taken in trade for letting Chloe use his phone before. The hat was so large, the man looked like a child wearing a grown-up’s hat. Horace was twice as big as normal guys. The hat kept falling down over the old man’s eyes, and he tried to keep it up by propping it too far back on his head.

Excuse me, Chloe said. Um, can I ask you some more questions?

Sure, then to his dog in a childish voice, Bring it to me, baby. There you go, Poo-poo Bear. Good doggie. He took the faded tennis ball from the dog’s mouth and tossed it down his long side yard. Isn’t he brilliant? Watch this. I just taught him to fetch. The dog ran to the ball, then plopped down in the grass next to it panting with his tongue hanging out.

I was wondering, could you tell me again what you know about the trip my family took?

Bring me the ball, Poo-poo. Come on! Come on! The dog stayed where he was, gnawing on the ball. "Oh, it was your family? Well, like I said before, some men came visiting from that church—the one a few blocks south on Federal—and apparently they had a vacation package to give away. He pushed the Stetson back up again. Someone donated it and they were looking for a family to take it. They said they got your name from a visitor card or some sign up. It was a limited time, almost expired, so your family had to leave right away. They couldn’t wait for you to get back. I guess you were already away with your band."

Orchestra.

He looked at her blankly.

I play cello. It’s an orchestra, not a band.

He shrugged. Well, anyway, they left the next day and have been gone about a week. Then the house caught on fire night before last. The street was closed off with fire trucks everywhere. They couldn’t save it. We’re lucky the whole block didn’t burn down. It was incredible. We were scared to death! We hooked up our hose and stood guard, ready to water down any and every ember that came near us. He clapped at the dog to return with the ball, but Poo-poo was too busy chewing to listen.

And you said before that I was in Brazil?

He looked at her like she irritated him. "Weren’t you? Well, I guess you know where you were. I’d just heard that. I think Mrs. Klassen across the street said it. You know better than me if your band—orchestra—was in Brazil. Come on, Poo-poo. Bring me the ball."

Chloe didn’t know if she’d been to Brazil. Maybe in another timeline. In her world, she’d been in Scotland on an orchestra trip where she’d met Horace. Then they ended up in sixteenth-century Scotland and got stuck. And that’s where Horace had left Kaitlyn and had just left to go and bring her right back.

She checked down the sidewalk to see if he was back with Kaitlyn yet. She needed to talk to them.

They weren’t there so she thought about calling her dad.

Can I borrow your phone again?

He pinched his lips, exhaled fast, and whistled through his hairy nostrils.

That Stetson is worth a lot of money, Chloe said.

"When I accepted the hat in trade, your big friend said it was for one call. I have limited minutes. Well, I think I do. These new phones. All right. Just be careful. I don’t want the screen scratched. I just got it." He handed it over and held on a little longer than he needed to.

She dialed her dad and got his voice mail. Dad, I’m at Nana’s. I imagine you know it burned down. Or maybe you don’t. Mom is flying back with everyone, but I don’t have my phone, or car keys—I don’t even know if the Jeep is out of the shop yet. Anyway, I’m borrowing this phone, so you won’t be able to call back. Um, can you just come over here? And we’ll figure out what we’ll do? I guess I need a place to stay. Anyway, okay, I hope to see you soon.

Chloe ended the call and noticed the brand icon on the phone. He’d said it was a Pantech phone, an Asian brand that didn’t begin to compete with Apple. But the logo was for Panatech. I think you have a knock-off brand here. She handed it back feeling a little sorry for the guy who’d been suckered into an imitation phone.

No, it’s a Panatech. It’s the best smartphone you can buy. It’s so much better than a Cingular phone.

You mean AT&T now?

What’s AT&T?

Wow. This guy really was out of touch. Try going online now and then, mister. Never mind. Thanks for letting me make the call. I appreciate it. Enjoy the hat.

She walked back to the burnt remains and sat on the curb to wait for Horace and Kaitlyn. Though she didn’t want to rehash every single thing that had happened, her thoughts drifted to fabulous memories of flying through the sky, being held in Horace’s protective arms while transferring into different dimensions, and experiencing heaven with its amazing music, fragrance, and peace. She could still clearly visualize and practically feel Horace against her body when he’d transfigured with her lying on top of him after they’d crash-landed into the past. It had been mind blowing, and intimate, and more incredible than anything she’d ever witnessed. And somewhere during all of those intense experiences, both bad and good, she’d fallen in love with him. Her beautiful, unpredictable, fascinating, flawed personal angel. She relished the time they’d had together, little as it was. She didn’t need more time to know what she felt for him. It was the first certain thing in her life.

Then other images flashed through her mind—Horace nearly killed, battles with demons, the terror and ugliness of hell, the horror of seeing a child slaughtered before her eyes. A shiver shook her. She didn’t want those memories. She pushed away the nightmares and instead remembered better times with her best friend, Kaitlyn. Like when she and Kaitlyn played for their supper at Agnes Stewart’s castle, Dunnottar—a fortress on a rugged hilltop just outside the village of Stonehaven. It was silly and ridiculous when Kaitlyn struggled to play the viola with her elbows pinned to her sides with that crazy dress Horace had created when his powers were going haywire. Kaitlyn had also struggled not to gag when she smelled meat smoke or saw all the animals on cooking spits—which was practically all the time. She cherished Kaitlyn’s constant optimism, and her loyalty, even when circumstances were extra tough. It would be so good for her to come back where she could get tofu and protein bars, and never have to deal with those evil demons again.

When Chloe came out of her reverie, she realized a lot of time had passed. The curb was too hard to sit on any longer and the shadows of the tall, thick trees along the street had shifted. She got up and shook out her legs and rubbed the feeling back into her bum. She looked up and down the street, wondering for the billionth time where Horace and Kaitlyn were. The man with the dog wasn’t in his yard anymore. Across the street, a woman was pushing a baby stroller with two whining toddlers following behind her. The woman craned her neck to look at what was left of Nana’s house.

Chloe gave her a pathetic wave and the woman finally looked where she was going and left Chloe alone. Several cars drove by, slowing so the drivers could gawk at the burned Pick-Up Sticks of the house. Every time a vehicle turned the corner onto the street, Chloe strained to see who was driving, hoping it was Horace. Of course she knew it was dumb to think he’d show up in a car, but it was an automatic response. She wanted so much to see them.

The parade of rubberneckers dwindled, but then a black Audi with dark windows pulled over and stopped. This morbid curiosity is getting old. The motor turned off and the driver’s door opened. Chloe didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Her dad stepped out of the car but stayed standing behind the open door.

Hey. I was in a long meeting.

Dad, when did you get an Audi?

What? It’s the same one.

Same as what? she thought.

You never told me you had an Audi.

He looked puzzled then shook his head. Where is your phone? I tried to call you. You should keep it with you.

I think it’s in there. Chloe pointed at the missing house. I think my cello might be in there too.

He was clearly struggling to hold in his temper. Chloe hoped he’d realize they were lucky she was safe.

He glanced toward the house and his eyes widened like it was registering for the first time. The house—it looks…wow. It really did burn to the ground.

Yeah, it’s bad.

Were you home? Or were you over at Karen’s? You didn’t leave the stove on again, did you?

Dad, it wasn’t my fault.

I’ve always had to tell you to be careful.

No, you just never trust me. It was some kind of explosion. The fire bombs Horace’s father threw at the house were to blame.

Why is the Jeep in the shop? What happened to it?

The axle? Remember?

"You didn’t tell me about that. I’m not going to pay for more car problems if you and Michelle don’t take better care of it. And now your phone and cello. You’re killing me, Chloe."

How could he forget about her car accident? How could he care more about her phone than her own safety? But she didn’t want a lecture about expenses, and she couldn’t even think of her cello yet, so she changed the subject. I talked to Mom. They’re on their way back. I forgot to ask they’re arrival time.

They land tonight at eight. She’s been leaving me messages all day. Where are you going to stay?

Really, Dad? Really? "I thought…with you."

What about Karen? Can’t you stay there?

Kaitlyn. Her name is Kaitlyn. I don’t know. She isn’t home right now.

Your mom can get a hotel.

"I thought we’d all stay with you, in our house." She wasn’t going to let him off so easily.

He took a deep breath. An irritated deep breath. I guess you can come. Just while you wait for the plane. I have plans tonight. Who’s going to pick them up? Did she say?

Chloe wanted to scream some of Horace’s ancient obscenities at him. Was he really so awful?

We can’t afford a hotel. You got all the money. And the house. And the dog. Remember?

Don’t get smart with me, Chloe. I get enough of that from Michelle. I thought you were more mature than her. You give me grief? I’ll just drive away right now and you can figure this out yourself. I didn’t have to come over, you know. I’m doing you a favor.

"You’re my dad. I shouldn’t have to ask you to take care of me. You’re supposed to take care of me. That’s what dads do. Especially when their kids are abandoned and alone and the house they’re borrowing burns down."

That did it. He jumped back into the Audi, slammed the door, and squealed away like a teenager.

Great. Dad is having a fit worse than Benji.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Now what would she do? Hopefully, Horace would appear any minute and solve everything. She needed his comfort. And for him to hold and kiss her. They needed time together. Without any drama. Just a normal date would be a good place to start.

Chloe walked toward Federal Boulevard. It was taking longer than she’d expected for Horace to come back. With time travel, shouldn’t he be able to leave, go to sixteenth-century Scotland, pick up Kaitlyn, then come right back to when he’d left? She shouldn’t have to feel any time pass.

She walked back toward the house. She was pacing, city blocks at a time. It was taking too long. Way too long. Where is Horace?

***

When Kaitlyn woke up, slanted morning sunrays were filtering through the trees. It took a minute to figure out where she was. Once she did, she felt nothing. The terror from the night before was gone, like none of it had really happened, like only a bad, fading nightmare.

Billy looked so young and small in the daylight. His wound was massive but it didn’t affect her now like it had. She kept her eyes from looking at the witch. Even without feeling, she didn’t want to see the headless body or the detached head.

Birds chirped now in all the trees, calling back and forth, cooing, tweeting, and clicking. A squirrel chattered not too far away. Something to her right rattled and cracked the dead leaves but didn’t come out for her to see.

This is stupid. Was she going to stay in the forest for the rest of her life, even if Horace didn’t show up? She stood and waited for her leg, which had fallen asleep, to stop buzzing. And while it did, she decided what to do.

Her gown was stiff with brown stains. She wanted it off. She tore it from the bodice, leaving just her underskirt. It was bloody too, the rust splotch soaked into the fibers of the white cotton. She’d ignore it. Because she had to.

She laid out the torn skirt next to Billy, staying as far from the witch as possible, and moved his body onto the fabric. She wrapped him in the cloth, like a shroud, tightly but gently. She lifted him into her arms and left the forest.

It took her a few turns and retraced steps to find her way to the road. Once she did, she found the mule Horace had been riding, munching grass sparkling with dew. She placed Billy’s body on the mule’s back and led the mule by its lead rope, up the road toward the village.

CHAPTER 2

January 1943: Stalingrad, Russia

"Satarel!" Panahasi screamed into the black night. Father! Don’t leave me here! I’ll make it up to you! It was Horatius. My brother was the one who betrayed you. Not me!

Nothing happened. Satarel had left him, just like before.

He was already freezing to death. Satarel, his demon father, had dumped him in an ice-encased ditch and abandoned him with only his Scottish shirt and a tartan kilted around himself. At least he had trews to keep his legs from direct exposure, but they were threadbare and were little better than nothing. He pulled his legs in close and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees to save what heat he could. The air temperature had to be at least thirty below zero. His nostrils froze up with the moisture from each breath.

A plane droned overhead, invisible in the ebony sky. Rockets whistled past. He compressed into a smaller ball. Bombs exploded all around him. He flinched with each blast. The trench was right in the middle of some horrendous battle. By the pulsing light of each detonation, he looked around the ditch in which he was hunkering down.

It was long and narrow, and just deep enough to let someone his size remain out of sight by walking bent over. A man frozen with his clouded eyes still open was right next to him. Two more dead men were farther down the trench. Those two were pierced with multiple gunshot wounds, each puncture circled with brown blood, and they slumped against each other like they’d been gunned down where they sat. A thick layer of frost encrusted their faces, clearly dead much longer than the dead man right next to Panahasi.

He pulled his tartan farther over his shins. He was shivering, a wild shaking he couldn’t control. It was from more than just the cold. It was fear. Fear that he might actually die here. At least as much as one of the Nephilim could die without being decapitated. He could freeze and be taken for a corpse and be buried—not alive but not dead. He could be burned and left with horrid pain and disfigurement. Or if hit with a rocket, that could be enough to end his existence, if all that was left of him were bits and pieces blown to kingdom come. I have to get out of here!

Already, he had endured two decades of exile on earth in the Middle Ages without his powers, stripped of his ability to transfigure and restore his form to perfection, denied his right to soar through the dimensions. He couldn’t even transmute matter. Only a few parlor tricks were left to him, and those did nothing to make existence more bearable. His father had chosen a hellish existence in which to punish Panahasi. And all because Satarel needed a scapegoat, someone to blame, for losing his chance to kill Horatius. Well, damn his father. He would find a way to survive and prove himself. He would find Horatius again and deliver him directly to the Prince, and he would win back his power.

First, he had to keep from freezing. He sized up the three dead men and their uniforms and decided the two lying entangled were too small to even consider. The man next to him was large enough that Panahasi might be able to make use of his clothes. He got up, keeping below the edge of the trench, and wrestled the corpse out of his trousers. Clearly the dead man had once been rotund by the way his ill-fitting trousers were bunched up and held by a tightly cinched belt. The coat was much harder to remove because the body was frozen stiff and its arms wouldn’t flex. The buckle and buttons were difficult to undo in the arctic temperature. If Panahasi didn’t get out of the cold soon, he’d start losing his own fingers to frostbite.

Filthy rags were tied around the man’s feet holding together pieces of cardboard. The toes showing through the holey socks and makeshift boots were black. Panahasi’s fur-lined boots were well-worn, but they were far better than anything the others wore.

He struggled into the stolen uniform, putting it on over his Scottish clothes, and chose to ignore its crust of filth. The garments’ extra-large size allowed Panahasi to get them on, though the sleeves ended at his forearms and the pant legs went only to his shins, meeting the tops of his boots. His blousy Scottish shirt sleeves billowed out below the truncated coat cuffs. He was certain he looked ridiculous but already the bitter bone-cracking cold didn’t cut through quite as painfully. He wrapped his tartan around his neck and shoulders and held it in place with his empty shoulder scabbard—the claymore having been confiscated by his father before he’d deposited Panahasi in this new purgatory.

While he pulled and stretched the band of the dead man’s cap to try to fit it to his own head, a rocket bomb exploded only meters away. He hit the deck. Dirt sprayed through the air and gravel rained down on him. A few single rifle shots popped off after the blast. He shuddered, crammed the cap on as far as it would go, and curled into a ball. He wondered into which hellacious war he’d been dumped. His new uniform had no insignia to indicate the decade, but it appeared to be German. In the next flash of light, he saw a Schmeisser propped against the dirt wall. A Nazi submachine gun. World War Two then, though he wouldn’t know with which side he’d been left by the submachine gun alone because it could have been stolen. His father’s sick sense of justice would certainly only leave him with the losing side. Judging by the unbearable cold, he feared he was in Russia, and by the starved and frostbitten state of his dead companions, he guessed it had to be near the conclusion of the war.

After a few more shots rang out, he heard low voices murmuring farther down the tunnel. Panahasi scrambled to his feet, snatched the submachine gun, and worked his way toward the voices, staying bent below ground level. Maybe he’d find someone who would have something hot to drink.

Reaching the end of the trench, he slithered on his belly across a shallow saddle connecting his ditch to another and plunged head-first down into it. Two soldiers were huddled over a tiny flame inside a tin can. When he lurched into their midst, one grabbed and pointed his gun, but the other looked lazily at Panahasi as though he couldn’t care less who entered their pathetic garrison. The one with the gun had glassy eyes, wide open and glimmering by the flame light.

Where did you come from? he said in German. Who are you?

Lower your weapon, Panahasi answered. I’m on your side. He got off his belly and sat back against the rough-hewn earthen wall, hoping to put the soldier at ease. It would be too easy for the twitchy man to flinch and pull the trigger.

The haggard German eyed him a moment before relaxing and lowering the barrel of his gun. Have you any cigarettes?

Panahasi patted the breast pocket of his stolen coat and felt a box. He pulled it out and handed it over. The soldier shook out two cigarettes, one of which was already halfway burned. Though it was frozen solid, the German got it lit by holding it a long time to the flame in the can.

Which unit are you from? he asked after a deep drag. He handed the smoke to his listless companion who stared at it a moment before taking it. You don’t look German. And that’s obviously not your uniform. He pointed toward Panahasi’s coat with his gun barrel.

My own uniform caught fire. I did what I had to. Then he added, Two-ninety-fifth Infantry. Panahasi hoped it sounded like a legitimate unit.

The man pointed at his own chest with his thumb. Three-oh-five. Scheper there came from another. I forget which. He isn’t talking now so we can’t ask him. We last ate four days ago. Do you have any food?

He kept his bulging eyes focused on Panahasi and when he didn’t answer, the soldier spoke again. I don’t know how many of us are left but someone keeps getting shots off. I only have one bullet left. I’m saving it.

Panahasi knew Hitler had ordered all his officers to commit suicide before surrendering, but clearly the lowly infantrymen were also tempted to shoot themselves in such misery.

The soldier kept talking, as though the silence was uncomfortable for him. What kind of German are you anyway? If you didn’t speak so well, I’d take you for a Hiwi. You’re not an Ivan defector, are you? The tip of his gun raised imperceptibly. You don’t look Russian, or Slavic either.

Panahasi had to think quickly, something becoming more difficult with the cold nearly freezing his blood to a standstill. My father was a German officer, an Oberst, in the first war, he lied, hoping he remembered the rank correctly.

You’re too dark for a German. His eyes narrowed, showing his skepticism. Bigger than all get out too. Where are you from?

I grew up in Berlin. My mother was from the Ottoman Empire. They met after the war. The crouching soldier put Panahasi on edge, the way he fidgeted and waved his gun barrel without control. The last thing he needed was that last bullet to rip a hole through him. He couldn’t yet conceive how he was going to escape this perdition, but if he took a bullet, his circumstances would be greatly worsened.

He got up into a squat, rising slowly to avoid getting shot.

I need to relieve myself, Panahasi said. Keep the flame burning. I’ll share the other smoke with you when I get back. I must get out of here.

Panahasi stood up and risked a quick look outside the foxhole. The blaze of many fires lit up mortared buildings scattered about in ruins. Burned-out tanks and trucks and mangled jumbles of metal were strewn around craters in what must have once been streets. A carved stone fountain of dancing children flashed in the light of an explosion. The pop-pop-pop of a gun echoed across the square and the edge of the trench puffed and blew gravel everywhere. He ducked, cursing the grit that hit his face.

"You stick your head up like that again, you’ll get to leave this hell. Those snipers have kept us in their sights for days. You’d think they never had to relieve themselves."

This time, Panahasi made sure he kept out of sight as he wove his way down the foxhole trench away from the doomed soldiers. He had to find a way out. He came to the end of the ditch and risked another look. A tank with its side blown open and caterpillar tread unfurled flat beneath its wheels sat between him and the sniper. He launched himself out of the hole and flattened onto the ground next to the tank. He lay perfectly still in the soot-crusted snow. Out from the protection of the trench, wind knifed through his inadequate layers.

He got on his feet but crouched low. Scattered wreckage provided the cover he needed to sprint from one position to the next. Waiting between explosions, he timed his movement to avoid the bright flashes. His heart sped up each time he prepared to take off for his next goal. He was working his way from the center of town, hoping to find a vehicle that hadn’t been blown to bits. I have to escape!

The brick wall he’d ducked behind suddenly blew apart.

When he came to, he was flat on his back staring up at the low ceiling of the smoke-filled sky that reflected back the orange of fire. He could barely hear the dampened report of guns through horrible ringing in his ears. Hot liquid dripped down his face into his ear. He was wondering how much of his face was gone when everything went black again.

***

The day had cooled and the moon was out by the time headlights shined up the dark street. Nothing was visible except the two blue-white beams coming from the car. The light flashed across Chloe waiting on the sloped grass yard, and the car slowed and pulled in to parallel park at the curb in front of Nana’s house. The tall streetlight next to the house was blown out, making it nearly impossible to see the black and white checks on the taxi.

Chloe wondered why Horace and Kaitlyn had taken a cab. Maybe they’d arrived somewhere too far away to walk. It didn’t matter. She was glad they were finally back.

Seeing their cab drive up erased all the worry that had intensified and nearly choked her during the hours she’d spent alone with the charred house, her fears, and her imagination. She ran up to the back door of the cab and pulled it open.

What took so long? she said.

Her baby brother Benji hopped out.

I met Goofy, he said. Her sister Michelle followed out after him, then Mom got out and came around to open the front passenger door. Nana was in the front seat.

Chloe was so glad to see everyone with her own eyes, the disappointment of them not being Horace and Kaitlyn was obliterated by relief and joy. She grabbed Benji and squeezed him in a hug, planting kisses on his chubby, soft cheeks, even though he squirmed and wiped them off.

I saw Mickey too, but he made me afwaid so I didn’t talk to him. A stuffed Tigger dangled from Benji’s grip. And of course, his hexagon blankie that Nana had crocheted was wrapped around his arm.

Michelle, go get Nana’s walker. Mom sounded exhausted.

Hey, driver! Michelle yelled at the front of the cab. Pop the trunk, unless that’s gonna cost us another ten bucks.

Michelle, stop it. I’ve had enough of your sarcasm today, Mom said. Stop embarrassing us.

The trunk clicked and the lid elevated. Michelle yanked out the walker, set it up next to Mom, then went back and started grabbing out luggage. The driver stayed in the car.

With Benji still held tightly in one arm, Chloe went to Mom with her other arm out. "It is so good to see you."

Mom waved her off and kept wrestling with the walker next to the taxi. It’s been a long day, Chloe. How bad’s the house? Then Mom reached out to Nana, still in the car. Give me your hand, Mama. Come on. Before he turns the meter back on. If you’re not going to help, Chloe, then get out of the way, Mom scolded as she glanced up at Chloe. Well, you’re a frizzy mess. You know I don’t like it when you let your hair frizz.

Her words were like a slap in the face. Worse than usual, but Chloe tried to remember Mom was probably worn out too. Chloe carried Benji to the trunk. She couldn’t help herself and grabbed Michelle into a hug.

"Whoa, I wasn’t gone that long. Careful there. I have sunburn. What’s the deal? Michelle wriggled away. Is the house really that bad?"

Chloe wanted to cry, but she held it in. It’s bad. It’s gone, she said through her tightened throat.

Michelle strained to see the house through the thick darkness beyond the tiny trunk light. My movies? All my shoes? Didn’t the firemen save those at least?

"They couldn’t even save a wall, Michelle. It’s all gone."

"Man! I just bought the last two seasons of Teen Wolf."

Sorry. All melted. Mom, we can’t stay here. You should just leave Nana in the cab, Chloe said.

Mom kept right on helping Nana stand up. I’ve used up my cash. We’ll get the Jeep. Then we’ll figure out where we’re going.

As soon as Nana was out and Mom closed the door, and Michelle slammed the trunk, the taxi took off.

"Mom didn’t tip the driver enough,