Before the Sun Hits

By Arthur Swan

When an unrelenting universe threatens to end Earth in an instant, one man could make a difference . . .

In a small North Carolina college town, a disillusioned math professor, Drew Bauer, discovers the sun is dying. His abandoned research could hold the key to survival, but he needs more information, and he needs help against the growing conspiracy to stop him. Trenton Smith, a sadistic billionaire who plans to sacrifice Earth for his own survival, attempts to isolate and control Drew. But Drew escapes with his engineer pal, Joe Sandusk. They plunge into a dangerous cross-country trip to a secret NASA facility where Drew falls for a scientist, Liza Maddox, whose uncertain loyalty could sabotage all their efforts. Almost out of time—and with Smith’s forces closing in—Drew, Liza, and Joe race down the California coast to save the world.

“’Tis better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.”
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arthur Swan
• Release date: Jan 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996560511

Arthur Swan

Arthur Swan lives in Los Angeles with his wife Jen. Originally from North Carolina, he moved to LA in 2000 to work in the movie industry. He can be found hiking high climbs in early fog before the sun burns through as mist vanishes to blue sky, or otherwise, he's probably trying to write.

Book preview

PART ONE:

tenuous reality

CHAPTER ONE

Less than a week before, I had been sitting in my small house near campus. Early morning shadows stretched across the dew-coated lawn. It was a Monday. I looked forward to teaching a 9 a.m. physics class, and then there was math. Calculus, to be exact; the students were half-interested college sophomores, half of whom weren’t even there two thirds of the time.

I watched dappled light dance across the floor as trees swayed outside in the early fall breeze. Although it didn’t register consciously at the time, I must have noticed the dimming light in the primordial part of my brain. Something caused me to stop, with unquestioning acceptance, and sit on my bed as I watched the sunlight sway into the room. It was the last time I enjoyed sunlight as a constant, before I discovered the ephemeral nature of our star, like a dry flower about to spray seeds into the wind. The memory has expanded in my imagination into a surreal, slow-moving image with partially missing details, colors. I wish I had recorded it. I should have gone outside to soak in the full stretch of sunrise under the oak on my front lawn. I should have relaxed against the thick trunk, nestled among roots, and inhaled the misty morning. Instead I snapped into my morning routine and rushed out the door.

I liked walking across campus first thing in the morning, especially in fall. Ancient oaks fanned out over the wide brick walkways, their still-green leaves patiently looming over energetic yellow and red maples. All around, colorful leaves littered expansive lawn.

I passed a lanky boy who was dragging his feet through the wet grass, too hungover to navigate the crowded walkway; noticed the dark sunken eyes of a gangly girl who’d stayed up all night to polish a report her professor would barely read.

So many sleepy faces—I couldn’t focus. I needed to get all the way awake; only coffee could clear my cloudy mind.

I stepped into the Daily Grind behind a paint-spattered art student who was studying the menu, just getting started on a lifetime caffeine addiction. The line moved slowly.

CNN played on a giant wall-mounted flat-screen display. Spontaneous Early Migrations flashed across the screen in big bold letters over a graphic of birds flying south. The volume was too low to hear as the anchorman interviewed a scientist who gesticulated wildly as he talked.

The art student in front of me, having finally decided what to order, pulled out a thin tablet and tapped the online Meriden College paper.

I peeked over his shoulder, curious about the migrations.

Not surprisingly, the front page concerned itself only with campus news. The narcissistic rag rarely covered the outside world.

The student swiped and zoomed in on the top headline: Mud Runners. Students had been covering their naked bodies with mud and streaking the quad for weeks. Campus security had failed to chase them down on multiple occasions, only adding to the spectacle.

There was a quote from Chancellor Pratt, who was attempting to come down in a positive light. We all appreciate the mud runners’ school spirit, but they need to stop for safety reasons. It’s dangerous to run through campus with improper attire.

Losing interest, I gazed out the window. Three freshmen chased each other with handfuls of leaves. A thin boy got a handful down the back of a plump girl’s shirt. She pretended to get angry, but couldn’t stop laughing.

I wondered how long it had been since I truly lost myself in an act of play. Years, maybe a decade. I had fun, sure, but to become truly lost in laughter . . . I’ve rarely seen adults let go. We become more fearful as we grew older, afraid to play games without rules.

Professor Bauer! What can I get you today?

I hadn’t seen the art student leave the register. Just the usual. Large coffee. I stepped across the gap to the perky pigtails at the register.

Coming right up!

I slow-sipped the steaming black brew as I strolled across the quad to the math and physics building. The morning air was crisp and clear, not quite cold. I could feel the increasing energy, the anticipation of a new day.

The incessant chirping of birds drowned out my thoughts. I might have overlooked it if I hadn’t seen the odd migrations headline, if others weren’t gazing up into the layers of limbs that shaded the quad. All different kinds of birds were singing at once, and there was something different about their calls—louder, less melodious. The birds, fleeing for the mistaken safety of the south, were shouting, crying warnings we could not understand.

My confidence boosted by coffee, I strode straight up the brick path to the main entrance of Crumley Hall. I nodded to a former student.

What’s up, Professor B!

I tossed my coffee cup into the trash can ashtray at the foot of the grand steps, where three young smokers gathered around, then lunged up the stone steps towards the huge double-door entrance. There was a girl making out with someone on the landing. I almost came to a complete stop when I realized it was Amy Stewart. Amy was one of my most interesting, interested students. Even in profile she was easily recognizable; thick, curly brown hair flowed off her shoulders and down her back.

I tried not to look, but I was transfixed.

Amy’s beau leaned casually against the wall. His hands reached around to her back, then slid down to rest on her butt. Amy had to stand on tiptoes to reach his lips with her arms around his neck. Her short shirt stretched up, revealing milky skin, soft curvy hips.

Amy opened her eyes and looked directly at me, as if she knew I would be standing there. She continued kissing him, pressing her body even closer against him, kissing him deeper, enjoying my reaction.

My mouth opened involuntarily.

She smiled—still kissing.

I took a deep breath, moving forward, but looking only at Amy.

I bumped into a student exiting the building and almost fell backwards down the stairs.

Excuse me, Professor Bauer!

Oops, no problem, sorry. I hurried around him through the open doorway.

My footsteps echoed down the alabaster hall. I squeaked open the stairwell door so noisily it could be heard outside the building. Good thing the dorms were on the other side of campus, or students wouldn’t be able to sleep in to the last possible moment before class.

Crumley Hall was named for some ancient benefactor and was typically referred to as Crummy Hall. Professors called it Crummy because it was worn out; renovations and upgrades were long overdue. Students called it Crummy because it housed the math and physics departments.

My office was a mess. I tossed a stack of papers on top of the many layers as I hurried to gather my notes for class.

The years of focusing almost exclusively on dynamical systems research had left me emotionally dissociated. I saw teaching Honors Physics I as my chance to reconnect. Technically, I was a professor in the math department, so I had no business teaching a physics class, but the department chair, Phillip Aspenwall, offered it as a favor since dynamical systems are partially a physics problem. Also, none of the physics professors wanted to teach it.

Aspenwall was the chair of both the physics and math departments, which was unusual. He claimed he’d only agreed to chair both departments as a special favor to the college. Math-department speculators whispered that it was a power grab. He was bucking for promotion to dean.

I didn’t have the stomach for campus politics; I was just glad to finally teach a class that at least some students liked.

I entered the drab classroom and the chattering class grew quiet as my footsteps echoed on the faux marble floor. I shivered inwardly under the silent stares.

I placed my box of physics props on the front table and tried to remember what it was about being young that made people so critical. I was only thirty-four, yet I felt ancient compared to my students. They seemed younger every year, and the gray stood out in my dark brown hair.

I scanned the room. It was a fairly large class. The ancient wooden desks were on raised levels that ascended to the back of the room. I noticed a few eye rolls. Several students had already turned back to their laptops and phones. The only one willing to make eye contact was Amy Stewart. She sat in the second row looking more ready to go out on the town than to an early morning physics class.

I rummaged around in my prop box and pulled out a stuffed monkey. Amy laughed openly and there were a few other chuckles. Even some eye-rollers started to pay attention.

I pulled out an electromagnet wired to the top of a C-stand and plugged it in carefully, then connected the kill switch to the electromagnet and placed it in the center of the table. The monkey’s head snapped onto the powerful electromagnet, thanks to the iron ball I had surgically inserted. He hung there facing the class, legs dangling a few feet above the table.

Everyone was paying attention.

I placed a large pneumatic gun on a stand at the other end of the table and adjusted the height so it was aimed at the monkey’s chest. I loaded a few Ping-Pong balls into the gun and wired the trigger to the electromagnet’s kill switch. I moved my prop box to the floor and stood back dramatically.

All right! I said too loudly. I’m about to release the monkey and at the same time fire a high-velocity Ping-Pong ball. Raise your hand if you think the ball will go below the monkey as he falls.

No one raised their hand.

Okay, raise your hand if you think the ball will shoot over Mr. Monkey’s head.

Several students raised their hands. Most abstained from voting, I assumed out of general indifference more than knowing the right answer.

I stepped back nervously and reached for the switch. If the ball missed the monkey, my lecture on momentum wouldn’t hold much weight. If the electronics failed, I would be a joke and could count on little participation for the rest of class.

I crossed my fingers behind my back and pressed the button with false confidence.

The pneumatic gun fired with a large pop as the monkey dropped.

Immediately there was a thwack as the Ping-Pong ball hit the monkey and knocked him to the side. He fell off the table into a large metal wastebasket. The students clapped and I even heard a few sympathetic awws.

Well, I said with a sigh of relief. This is one of the few experiments where abstaining from voting turns out to be the correct answer.

The tension I felt at the beginning of class completely dissipated. I went over the ballistics equations and explained the independence of vertical and horizontal momentums. The students continued to pay attention. Many even took notes.

Amy made a performance out of it, hoping I would notice her arched back as she enthusiastically copied my sketches from the whiteboard.

I didn’t care if they were laughing at my jokes or at me. I was happy to hold their attention. I lectured five minutes past the end of class, unaware until I noticed students packing books as if to leave. Okay, that’s all we have time for today. But, I almost forgot about the field trip to the solar power plant. Who’s going tomorrow?

Only Amy raised her hand. A few people looked around awkwardly.

I forgot to mention last week—there will be five points added to your final grade for the semester if you write a one-page summary.

Six hands shot up.

I smiled. Okay, here’s the signup sheet. Just write your name and number down if you’re definitely going. We’ll meet in the back parking lot at ten thirty sharp.

Eight students signed up as they filed out of the classroom.

Amy stalled so she would be last, then slowly signed the sheet, like it was a love letter. I tried not to notice her suggestive pose as I finished packing my props into the bin.

Of course I was flattered, but it felt strange that Amy would focus her affection on me when just an hour earlier she was making out with an undergrad on the front steps.

Professor Bauer, I’m really looking forward to this trip. I’m a huge fan of solar power. I always wanted to know more.

I was transfixed by her deep blue eyes and honest smile. Her lips were parted just enough to reveal her upper front teeth pressed into her lower lip. I wanted to hold her curly brown hair in my hands.

That’s great, I said, knowing she wanted more. I hope you’ll find you already learned a lot about it this semester.

Yes, I think I will, Amy said emphatically, then turned and walked musically out of the room.

I felt a great surge of hopefulness, but it had crashed like a wave by the time her hand caressed the door frame.

I laughed to the empty classroom. She’d probably just learned how to flirt.

I was already five minutes late to Calculus.

I ran down the hall, dropping the physics props box outside my office.

I took the stairs two at a time to the next floor.

I panted into Calculus and was disappointed when half the students didn’t bother showing up. I couldn’t figure out how to make that class more interesting. I passed out the midterm exams feeling sorry for all the absentees. I would have to fail most of them unless they aced the final. I expected the usual few students would show up at my office desperate. I always offered makeup exams, regardless of the unbelievable story.

After collecting the calculus exams, my spirits immediately lifted. It was only 11 AM, and I was done for the day. Sure, I had office hours in the afternoon, but no one ever came.

I cleared enough space on my cluttered desk to open my laptop and piddled around on the internet for an hour or so until my stomach began to rumble. I walked through campus and crossed Main Street, thinking about how much easier things were now that I had given up on my research. I used to work night and day, deriving equations and creating computer simulations for interstellar orbits. I would get so annoyed by any interruption. Having to teach class had seemed demeaning, but since I failed to land a position at a big research university, teaching took up a big chunk of my week.

Over the past year, I had finally accepted my lot in life. My achievements weren’t going to measure up to expectations. I was beginning to think I could actually enjoy teaching.

I turned into the narrow alley behind the Main Street shops. Most of them had their back entrances boarded shut, but Kent’s sandwich shop only had a back entrance. I’d originally started going there because it wasn’t crowded, but now it was consistently packed. I kept going, though, because I hadn’t found anywhere else.

I walked through the door and was immediately in line. One more and the line would have been out the door. Students were happily laughing and chatting, some with each other but most on phones.

I realized it didn’t matter how much longer I’d been a regular customer of Kent’s. I was the outsider, not them.

No one seemed able to make eye contact. The long line of students kept their backs to me. Those seated at nearby tables were suspiciously quiet. An older girl with brown braids cast a quick look in my direction. I raised my eyebrows and offered a friendly expression. She looked away immediately.

I recalled how Amy had looked at me after class—like I was the most important person in her world. It felt like we had a mutual understanding, a meaningful connection that no one else could penetrate.

I tried to remember what it was like at their age. Older people had seemed so different to my friends and me, almost pathetic. We thought we would never become—what I had become that afternoon in Kent’s. Standing in line, isolated. What was I doing there? What was I doing?

The cashier correctly assumed my order was for takeout.

I took my turkey on rye to the top of the parking deck behind Kent’s, where there was a rarely visited rooftop garden. I sat cross-legged on a bench backed into a thicket and ate my sandwich, observing scattered pears rotting on the ground below the unharvested city tree.

Chancellor Pratt liked to compare Meriden College to a tree bearing the fruit of education. He waxed poetic on the nourishment of funding, skipping the notion that students’ money became water in his metaphor. Until recently, our growth was stunted, struggling to stay alive. The big universities had eclipsed our light, and the board of trustees had brought Pratt in from the private sector, determined to enforce growth. Pratt was transforming us into a carnivore. The college did seem bigger, at least in image, but the campus was more vicious. Meriden had moved into fast, cold water.

It was demoralizing. Even if I could throw my whole heart into teaching, it wouldn’t be enough. The feeling that I was wasting my life—building to a breaking point. But what could I do? Sure, my insurance might cover a shrink, but a supportive listener wasn’t going to help. I needed a plan. I had invested my whole career, poured everything I had, every spare moment, into research that had not proven useful, valuable, or even fundable. And it was clear in the eyes of the new administration that I needed funding to continue. I needed a new direction. To stay the course would be insanity, but dynamical systems research was all I had, and it wasn’t even important to me anymore.

A few years earlier I had converted my simulations into a low-quality screen saver that animated various planets and heavenly bodies along interesting orbits through the space of an idle computer screen. No one had cared, though. The problem was that even the few people old enough to remember the screen-saver fad only used one rarely and out of nostalgia. Screen saver had become a shorthand term for useless computer application.

Making a conscious effort to stay positive, I started walking to the library. Shortly after my Strange Attractors screen saver had failed to gain traction, I wrote a book that detailed how to use various dynamical systems to produce amazing graphical effects. A few chapters, such as the one on Lorenz attractors, were really just a clear organization of information available online. However, I compiled most of the book from my own research, some of it previously unpublished. I thought the sections on strange attractors and three bodies might be interesting reading for students taking a numerical analysis course. I also hoped it would prove useful to professors looking for examples that would inspire students.

I could have easily checked the lack of results online. Going to the library or bookstore, though, was more satisfying. Nina Rose, the math and science librarian, always seemed eager to get some traffic.

Hey, Nina, I said, approaching the reference desk. Any customers lately?

She wore a tan sweater and a navy blue skirt. Even outside the library, anyone would have easily guessed that Nina was a librarian. There was something appealing in the way she carried herself, in her tightly cropped Audrey Hepburn haircut.

Nina flashed a warm smile and put her book aside. Drew Bauer, great to see you. Let me check. She swiveled her chair to the terminal that accessed the library catalog.

I knew the answer from the brief flash of pity I saw on her face.

Looks like nothing in the past week. She rotated back to face me. Although, you know, we’ve had more students recently. They never check anything out. We don’t have any way to monitor what they’re looking at. I bet you’ve had lots of readers.

Maybe, I said. Did you check the online library?

Always.

All right, thanks for checking! See you later.

Any time, Drew. It’s always a pleasure to have you stop by.

As I approached Crumley Hall, I automatically chose the path to the side entrance. I almost always used the side entrance.

When I first started at Meriden College, I preferred the ornate marble steps that fanned out from the main double doors. It made me feel privileged to be a professor. I felt like an important part of the academic community, catching the eye of my students as I jogged up the front steps, eager to get to my office and jump into my research.

As the years went by, I favored the side entrance more and more. I was the only one that used it. It’s not that I was avoiding people. I found some sort of meditation in the solitude of walking up the shady stone path that was broken and warped by the huge oak tree planted next to it. The bike rack snuggled into the bushes along the building had the usual three bikes. There was something comforting about going down the stairs and through the small basement door to the side stairwell.

It made me feel better about my own work to be reminded that the architect had spent too much time on the ornate entrance jamming in the leftover design requirements like junk piled at the back of an attic.

My footsteps echoed behind me as I exited the stairwell. I realized I had a lot to do. The exams from my calculus class would probably take all night and most of the next day to grade. I had neglected to account for the field trip. It was actually going to be quite difficult to get my grades in by the Tuesday night deadline.

I decided I could grade faster at home, where there was more space to spread everything out. I packed up the exams, accidentally slammed my office door behind me, and walked downstairs.

Phillip Aspenwall called my name as I passed his door.

My impulse was to pretend I didn’t hear him and keep walking.

Bauer! he yelled louder.

I felt guilty and went back to his office.

Ah, there you are, Bauer, he said. I’ve been looking for you.

What can I do for you?

Aspenwall attempted a polite smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Look, uh, Drew. I need some help with this problem for the online physics course we’re developing.

He looked at me desperately from behind a giant wooden desk cluttered with curios. A Rubik’s Cube from fifty years ago, the classic metal balls that bounced back and forth eternally reiterating inertia, a lava lamp, and other staples of a single nerd. He was mostly bald, but grew his hair longer on the left side and combed it across in a low part. I wondered if the part would just keep getting lower as his baldness spread.

You can’t get Winters to look at it?

No, this is more suited to your area of expertise.

Okay, how soon do you need it?

That’s the thing—it’s a high-priority initiative of Chancellor Pratt. I promised we would have it ready tomorrow.

"We what? Why is Pratt even involved in an online course?" The chancellor was too high-level. If anyone, the request should have come from the dean of arts and sciences.

I don’t know. Guess it’s important. That’s why I said yes.

Sorry, but I’ve just got too much on my plate. How about we shoot for next week?

Unfortunately, that’s not soon enough. All I could do was negotiate for tomorrow. But listen. I’m thinking if this goes well, we can talk to Professor Murphy about trading Numerical Analysis for one of your calculus classes next semester. You can even tweak the course to include an emphasis on dynamical systems. You can use your book.

I stood there, flabbergasted.

Think about it. Aspenwall smirked, knowing he had me hooked. I think this problem will interest you. It’s right up your alley. Take a look!

He hit a key on his computer decisively. The printer behind him powered up and shot out a page. His monitor faced away from the office door, and I didn’t care to look. My stomach twisted and I focused instead on the sleek new black printer—a statement of power. The rest of us in Crumley Hall had to share the ancient printer in the break room. The Monstrosity, as we referred to it, was made of blotchy, faded plastic, and was always out of ink.

Aspenwall handed me the page.

It took all the self-control I could muster not to ball up the nicely printed problem and throw it at him. I silently stormed out of his office.

The request was ridiculous. It was not my responsibility to work on Aspenwall’s online course. We should have deliberated on the new course as a department and voted on the content. Never before had new responsibilities been issued without discussion, and never, certainly never with a one-day deadline! And then on top of it all, he had the balls to offer a bribe—a bribe, he knew, that I very much wanted.

I slammed open the side door to Crummy Hall and sulked into the cooling afternoon.

CHAPTER TWO

Looking back, it seems almost ridiculous how preoccupied I was with my own small life. Grading exams and demanding department chairs did not matter. I had the clues to our precarious situation stuffed in my back pocket, and I’d failed to put them together. We were all oblivious—repeating our daily routines like ants in a glass farm falling from a high shelf.

It was a pleasant walk home from campus on that crisp, colorful fall afternoon. I wish I had taken more in. I could not have known that that Monday would be my last normal day. I considered taking a few phone photos of the changing trees, but mistakenly decided to wait a few days for their colors to peak.

Walking gave me a chance to organize my thoughts, and the crunching sound of leaves underfoot echoed my feeling of being crushed by too much to do in too little time.

Academic wages did not go far towards pricy real estate near campus, but I preferred to live within walking distance. Nine hundred square feet was plenty for me.

I stepped through the front door and flung my keys onto the small table between the doorway and the couch. The previous owner had used the front room as a formal dining area, but I had a record player instead of a dining table. A large old wooden beast with brass dials and a plastic cover sat atop my stained-oak stereo cabinet, which was flanked by four-foot-tall speakers. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with vinyl.

I had collected most of the records on slow grad-school Saturdays, often driving long distances to some dusty old secondhand collector’s warehouse. Prices varied widely depending on the owners’ tastes, and I often ended up purchasing a scratchy, worn album for several times the price of a perfect digital download. I didn’t care about scratches, though, since I rarely took an album out to play. It was more about collecting. Thumbing through my records relaxed me.

I walked into my office to place my phone in the electromagnetic charging field and noticed a new voicemail from my ex. I unlocked the phone. There were no missed calls, even though service was nearly ubiquitous around Meriden. Caitlyn had sent the voicemail straight in without calling. It had been almost two years since we last talked.

I sat down and closed my eyes as the message played on speakerphone.

Hey, Drew, it’s me. Sorry I haven’t called in so long. I’ve been really busy setting everything up at this new hospital in Lubango. We’re all working double shifts—you know how it is. Anyway, I don’t know if you got my last email or not, but I’m assuming you haven’t shipped my stuff yet or I would have heard something. I’m not mad or anything—I know you’re busy. I talked to my mom. She is going to come by and get everything this week so you don’t have to deal with it. I hope you don’t mind helping her load it in the car. Thanks, Drew! We should really talk soon—it’s just so hard to call with the time difference and everything. I hope you’re doing okay? Send me an email or even just a text, ’kay? Well, gotta get back to work. Miss you.

I swiveled my chair—Caitlyn’s belongings sat at the back of the small room under a thin layer of dust. She didn’t have much when she moved in, and she accumulated little during the ten months we lived together. It amounted to three trunks that she left behind on what was meant to be a one-month consulting gig in Africa. I had packed the top two boxes of mostly books and clothes a year earlier, after her first request to ship everything at her expense.

The bottom trunk was locked when she departed, and I still respected her enough not to break the lock and peek inside. She had told me very little about her past. I wondered what she was holding onto; I assumed all she really wanted was locked in the mysterious bottom trunk.

I fully intended to send her stuff; it just didn’t seem very high priority, since a year had passed before she even asked for it. So I’d kept procrastinating in short increments of tomorrow or next week, which had somehow added up to a year in which her three trunks were still sitting there in the corner.

I guess subconsciously I was keeping Caitlyn’s things as a token for contact, for a chance to ask why she left. I understood some of the reasons she wasn’t coming back—she needed a challenge, and her skills were a valuable commodity to the rapidly growing African Union. She could virtually name her price and position. Doctors had always been needed in Africa, but historically it was mostly for temporary humanitarian missions. As the AU fanned upwards from South Africa, its stabilizing, economy-boosting influence was building hospitals almost as fast as it was building manufacturing infrastructure.

Caitlyn didn’t want to explain, so she was sending her mother to fetch her things—to make a clean break. I knew it was the last time I would ever hear from her.

I had never understood how a simple question could set her off, and my question probably wasn’t that simple. Still, it seemed reasonable to ask why. There was more to it than just her career. Maybe Caitlyn didn’t fully know the answer herself.

I couldn’t bear the accusing stare of Caitlyn’s mother. I ran into her at a store shortly after Caitlyn announced she was staying in the AU indefinitely. I had tried to be friendly, but her mother had been quick, cold. She had glowered, obviously blaming me in some way for her daughter’s mysterious move to the other side of the world. Her mother didn’t understand either, and needed a way to explain the empty void left behind by her only daughter.

I wandered, distracted, to the parlor window. I ran my fingers across the top row of records as I looked out across the front lawn. The sun was already fading on that October afternoon.

I pulled out a record from the tightly packed shelf and looked at the cover. It was L.A. Woman by The Doors.

Yeah!

I carefully extracted the plastic disc in its paper sleeve and tossed the cardboard jacket on the couch. I slowly slid the record from the yellowed wax paper, only touching it on the sides, then flipped on the record player and placed the needle carefully on the last song of side two—Riders on the Storm.

I turned up the volume to about

Reviews for Before the Sun Hits

[Candi Martinez · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It started off ok, but Drew did not ever developed as a strong central figure.he spent more time trying to develop his relationship with Lisa.The plot lacked the urgency that one would expect from knowing that in a few days the sun would distroy its self.