The old dodge is a faded gold-colored wreck but it runs. Better than it should. Little Frankie, just one years old, sits bundled in the car seat in back gurgling her time away. The radio laughter hums in the car as Lyllian flies down the interstate towards the daycare. The morning show is careless and tired. About how Lyllian feels this September morning.  A gale of vapid laughter from the host abruptly stops short. There is talking that sounds different now. Lyllian’s mind, which was moving erratically from one thought to another notices the odd silence. They are talking again. This time their voices are low and disbelieving. Something has happened. Something big. The radio host says a plane has hit one of the two towers in New York. And a second plane has hit the other tower. An accident? Could it be an accident? How can it be? No one knows what’s happening. Lyllian can see the other drivers around her. Their faces all the same. Slack. Like hers. The host is talking again. The towers are falling. Crumbling to the earth. Plumes of smoke obscuring the skyline. Silence again. In the backseat baby Frankie begins to cry.

Next Chapter: Lyllian, Wednesday February 2017 Seattle