"Maybe he was in an accident?"Shamus wondered.

"No," Isma said. "He decided not to come. Him not coming yesterday, I understand. But I still thought he would come today..."

"Don't think like that," Shamus insisted. "If Timothy could be here, he would be."

"No."Isma hadn't admitted it even to Hanna. She had just told Hanna he was missing, not the reason she suspected he had left. "I did something, I did something that hurt him. I don't know how he found out, but he did. That's the only explanation. He's somewhere alone and hurt because of me."

"You really shouldn't blame yourself." Hanna cut in.

"I saw Paul," Isma admitted, and the admission made her tongue feel like it was rotting.It was a ch.o.r.e to get the words out but she forced them out. She told them and she felt the self-righteous ones (Shamus, Raymond, Annabel) judging her.

Hanna took her side. "You were with Paul for years. Of course you saw him. You're dying tomorrow. If Timothy was angry he should have faced you, not run off like a coward."

Isma just shook her head and nothing anyone said could make her feel better. Benito suggested she try and make the best of it, but she replied "I just want to leave. I'm going to go home and have an early night."

Hanna put her arms around Isma. "You shouldn't let him make you feel like this on your last night. Stay and we'll cheer you up."

"No," she said, forcefully. "I'm going."

She said her goodbyes to the ED group and none of the goodbyes were what she had imagined. They all felt flat, even with Hanna. Hanna was crying but Isma's eyes were dry. "How did this happen?" Isma asked Hanna before she left. "I've only known him three months. I shouldn't feel this. One week ago, if you told me this would happen, I wouldn't have thought it would affect me."

"Should I walk you home?" Hanna asked.

"No. Thanks, but I'd rather be by myself." She stepped out into the rain.

When Timothy got to the church, only Shamus was still there, putting things away. He told Timothy that Isma had already left, so Timothy drove to her apartment. What would he say when he got there?He had no idea. A part of him wanted to confront her about Paul and ask for specifics. Why did she lie?Did she sleep with him? Did she still love him? Another part of him just wanted to be with her and not to bring up Paul in any way whatsoever.

The traffic was dense, which was unexpected for a Sunday. The cars moved at a crawl. Timothy wondered where everybody was going to or coming from. Yesterday he'd been driving out, no particular destination in mind, just getting far far away. He'd planned to go to another city, to get a hotel room, a lot of alcohol, a thousand-a-night escort and whatever else he needed to make sure his last day was perfect even without Isma. That had been the theory. In practice, he'd felt miserable and had not been able to stop thinking about her.

So here he was, driving to apologize?Grovel?Scream at her? Well, something. "I've got one day left and I want to spend it with you," he whispered to himself. "That's real romantic. Who could say no to that?"

Timothy turned round the corner to Isma's apartment block and he saw the fire. The top three floors of Isma's building were ablaze. Timothy looked down at his watch. 00:27.Half past midnight.

"No," he breathed as the realization hit him.

This was it. This was how it was going to happen. Isma was in her apartment right now trapped and she would die in there, if she wasn't already dead. If he went into the building to try and save her, he would die too. That was the prediction. This was how it was going to happen.

The Death Machine had always been right but that was because everyone had always known too little information. Even EDs. But this time, Timothy knew everything. This was how it would happen. There wouldn't be two fires. This was the only one. All he needed to do to survive was to stand by and watch. That's how simple it would be to prove the Machine wrong. All he needed to do was do nothing. It's not like he could save her anyway.

Timothy stopped his car just outside the building. He heard screaming from within.

He stared up at the billowing flames and looked at the window he knew to be hers. She was in there, pinned under something or unable to run for some other reason. She must be so scared because she knew this was the end. She was in there, about to die. Waiting to die. Alone.

Timothy got out of his car and ran toward the fire at a full sprint.

Story by Daliso Chaponda Ill.u.s.tration by Dylan Meconis

MISCARRIAGE.

THE CITY IS BEAUTIFUL AT NIGHT. Long after the sun goes down, when the last rays have left the horizon scorched and aching, the buildings show their true shapes, silhouettes against the black with lights that twinkle orange and red. These are not the buildings, not anymore-rather, they're the buildings' ideas of themselves, the barest sketches. The burned-in after-image of a skyline put to bed.

With the fall of dusk, things simultaneously expand and contract. The streets open up, and familiar drivers can run them like rabbits in a warren, every turn practiced a thousand times and unimpeded by hesitant outsiders. It's a delicate dance. The people thin out, and suddenly the extra interactions-the vacant smiles and nods that mean nothing-are stripped out as well, and every meeting becomes one of significance. You see only who you want to see, and if you see someone else, it's because you wanted to see them and just didn't know it. Or they wanted to see you.

At the same time that the streets are opening up, they're also closing in. The city is a city during the day-people coming and going on business, tourists waltzing through and then back out, leaving snapshots and traveler's checks in their wake-but at night it becomes a home. Everyone acts a little different-after all, we're all roommates on a grander scale. This is my home, but it's yours, too. Mi casa es su casa. Mi ciudad es su ciudad. Mi casa es su casa. Mi ciudad es su ciudad. We're all in this together. We're all in this together.

Those smiles to pa.s.sersby that seem forced in the light become smirks at three in the morning. The raised eyebrow that says, "How was she?" or "I bet you could use a drink, too." People's walls start to come down. Masks are for daylight-once dusk hits, it's the moon's turf, and she likes us naked, naked, naked, just the way she made us.

Or at least some of us. The poets. The dreamers. The dancers and weavers. Sure, there are children of the sun out there-hardworking proponents of duty and righteousness-but not at night. We are the merrymakers, the children of the moon. And the moon, she takes care of her own.

She was taking care of Ryan as he ran across the bridge, her light following him as he took in the skyline, the radio towers and bedroom windows that lit his way home, offering nothing but asking nothing in return. It was a sight that had taken his breath away the first time, and every subsequent viewing was a chance to return to that original moment-who he was with, what he was doing.

Ryan wasn't interested in going back tonight, nor home. The globes on the streetlamps glowed soft as he turned down the footpath, hedges forming a tunnel before opening up into the park proper. Here it was dark enough that the moon washed away the colors, leaving only stark whites and grays. And black. Lots of black.

Annie was waiting on the merry-go-round, one foot dragging in the dust. The contrast of blonde hair over heavy black peacoat was enough to fry the rods in his eyes and blind him to more subtle distinctions, but he knew they were there. The tiny triangle where her nose met her lips. The scar on her cheek that made her hate cats. The ears that poked through the sides of her hair in a way that only she found awkward. She stood up, and the diminishing momentum of the merry-go-round carried her up to him, then stopped.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, then she sat and he followed, close but separated by the toy's dully reflective steel rail.

"How was the hospital?" she asked.

"Not too bad. Long." He sighed and pulled his jacket closer around him. She knew it was a loaded question-it was every time. How could he explain that working in the ER was simultaneously exhilarating and crushing? That in any given day, he worked miracles and failed miserably, complete strangers giving up and expiring beneath his hands? He couldn't, and once upon a time he'd told her so. So now she asked how his day was, and he said fine, and both of them knew that the exchange was one of affection, not information.

The machine didn't make his job any easier, either. You'd think it would warn people, let them know what was coming, or at the very least aid in diagnosis and emergency room triage, but somehow it rarely did. Every day he saw people making good on their little certificates, and every day it took all but a select few by surprise. Some were straightforward-the middle-aged man with the steering column in his chest and DRUNK DRIVER on the laminated slip in his pocket, or the kid who quit breathing on Sloppy Joe Day and hadn't yet been informed by his parents that CHOKE ON CAFETERIA FOOD was the last entry in his abbreviated biography. Others were more complex-the third-degree burn victim who tried to cheat death by never smoking a pack in his life, only to be done in by the upstairs neighbor who fell asleep with a lit cigarette near the drapes. Or the woman with SAILBOAT ACCIDENT in her wallet, crushed by a towed yacht in a five-car pileup. The list went on. One way or another, things always worked out in the end.

Though the residents and long-time nurses did their best to combat complacency-after all, you could never know if the heart attack implied on the slip was this one, or another in thirty years-you could still see the knowing look in the doctors' eyes when someone crashed. If you were lucky, the advance warning made things a little less traumatic for both patient and doctor. More dignified.

Annie pushed off from the ground and the merry-go-round spun hesitantly, their weight throwing it off balance and making it squeal against its steel and rubber fittings. Ryan realized he'd trailed off and snapped back to the present, turning toward her.

"Did you talk to your mom?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"How did it go?"

"About how we expected." She reached up with one hand and tucked a lock of severely cropped white-blond hair behind her ear. "She doesn't really trust it, and has all sorts of philosophical misgivings, but in the end she knows it's our decision and supports us without question. She'd like us to come out and see the new house whenever we can-she's trying to hold it back, but I can tell she's already gearing up to play the doting grandmother. She's probably already got the shower half-planned. I told her you're booked solid, but that we might be able to make it out in a month or so. What do you think?"

Ryan grunted noncommittally, feigning reluctance. She shoved his shoulder hard, tipping him off balance.

"Oh, come on," she said. "You know you love it. You don't even have to help cook-you just get to read and ride the horses and hang out with William. I'm the one who's going to have to go visit eighty-year-old great-aunts and listen to stories about people who died in 1967." She stood and grabbed his hand. "Come on, let's go sit on the swings."

Ryan stood and let her pull him along. In the dark, her tiny hands glowed against her sleeves, and he marveled at the boundless energy contained in something so small and delicate.

The park was nothing extravagant-a gravel-covered box edged with trees on one side, with the merry-go-round, a few big climbing toys, and a swing set. Nothing like the expansive playgrounds both of them had grown up with, but that was the price they paid for living in the city. During the day, every square foot was covered in running, yelling children, offering local mothers a few minutes to read their books on the surrounding benches. But at night it stood empty, save for the occasional drug deal or sleepy hobo.

Annie had exploded into Ryan's life like a mortar round, with only the faintest whistle to warn him. A smile across a crowded party, and suddenly she was right in front of him, introducing herself with a confidence that made him sweat. The rest of the party had suddenly paled in comparison, fading to a dull buzz, and the two had quietly excused themselves, drifting out into the silent streets.

Something about each of them opened a vein in the other, and the conversation flowed in great torrents, both of them pushing further and faster, daring each other to greater depths of intimacy. In a heartbeat Ryan found himself offering up his deepest secrets, astonished and enraptured by the care with which she picked each one up, examined it carefully from all sides, and then replaced it. They'd walked for hours, finally stopping in this park to rest on the swing set. When they eventually left, he'd gone home alone, but something had changed. It was a new sort of alone, relaxed and refreshed.

He'd invited her out again, and once more they'd walked until they dropped, taking a different path but still ending at the park. He'd repeated the date three times, reluctant to risk changing any variables, before she finally suggested that they might want to try going out to dinner or a movie once in a while. The fact that she said it while lying in his bed, hair tousled and one pink-tipped breast peeking out from beneath the threadbare cotton sheets, had taken any sting out of her words. They'd built a life together, but the park had always maintained a special place in their relationship. It was there that he'd asked her to marry him-not the most creative choice, but she'd still said yes. Even once they lived together, it had still been a place of significance. Neutral ground. Holy ground.

Annie sat down in the lower of the two swings and leaned back, toes barely dragging in the gravel. In the one beside it, Ryan's feet were flat on the ground, weight pulling down on the rubber until the chain pinched his sides.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Pretty easy," she said, slowly beginning to pump. "It's pretty much the same as amniocentesis-there was more than just the pinch they tell you to expect, but not much. It was over in like thirty seconds."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

She reached over and twined her fingers in his, making his arm sway in time with her.

"I know," she replied. "You had to work."

He stiffened, but her eyes held none of the old resentment. It was true-she really did know. And it was okay.

They'd conceived before. The first was a surprise, when they'd been married only a few months, and the tears of joy had been tinged with shock and a vague sense of panic. When she'd miscarried two months in, they'd been heartbroken, of course, but eventually both admitted to pangs of guilty relief.

The second time the stick turned blue, it was intentional-they had good jobs, a car, a house, and a strong desire to take the next step. They'd surprised their parents with it on Mother's Day, and were immediately enveloped in a whirlwind of blue and pink, both grandmothers good-naturedly attempting to outdo each other with baby preparation. Ryan's father, the paragon of stoicism, had cried and hugged him, tears leaking out from behind c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses. Annie glowed.

When the baby spontaneously aborted in the eighth month, the pain was unlike anything Ryan or Annie had ever known. The doctors explained that there was nothing they could have done, that sometimes these things just happened, but their words fell on deaf ears. Annie blamed herself. Ryan felt helpless. In their sadness, they turned away from each other. Conversations became arguments became battles. Annie, the picture of brazen self-confidence for as long as Ryan had known her, became weepy and dependent. She resented his long hours at the hospital. He resented her resentment. They'd separated for several months, her flying back to her parents' place in Maine, him staying in Seattle and picking up as many extra shifts as he could. But in the end, neither could stay away, and one Sat.u.r.day she'd showed up on his doorstep with tears and a suitcase. Together, they'd worked through their grief. When it was done, they were a little bit harder, a few more wrinkles in their faces, but the love that had been soft and warm and all-pervasive was now iron-hard, a steel cable that suspended them above the dark pit they'd both stared into. Their love had been tested. It had pa.s.sed.

There followed a long stretch where neither mentioned trying again, both of them reluctant to reopen old wounds. But all around them friends began having children, and both watched the way the other smiled when they saw small children running, the way their faces lit up when they cradled a newborn in their arms. And finally, after careful consideration and numerous late-night discussions, they had tossed out the box of condoms. Three months later, Annie was pregnant.

They'd gone back and forth on whether they wanted to test the fetus with the machine. These days, most adults went ahead and got tested, with the exception of the religious nuts and the staunch free-will atheists, who finally had a common cause to rally around. Both Annie and Ryan knew how they would go, and had shared that knowledge with each other early on. Yet the decision of whether to test a child, let alone an unborn one, was difficult, and raised a bevy of uncomfortable questions: would you abort a child that had a horribly painful death in store for it, or one that might die young? Sudden Infant Death Syndrome made frequent appearances on the machine's little slips of paper. Was it better to die at six weeks or to never be born in the first place? And suppose your child survived to adulthood. When did you inform them of the method of their eventual demise? Some parents advocated raising children with the knowledge from birth, in the hope that never knowing a life without a prescribed death would make it easier. Others waited until the child asked, or graduated from college, or got married. Whatever the call, knowledge of the means of death quickly wrenched the t.i.tle of "the Talk" from comparatively paltry topics like "where babies came from" and "you're adopted."

Pundits on both sides raged, but in the end, for Annie and Ryan, there was no question-if this child was going to miscarry as well, they needed to know as soon as possible so that they could induce it themselves. Abortion was far safer for Annie, and though neither of them said it, both knew that it would be easier to end things if they had less time to get attached.

Annie put her feet down, stopping herself, and squeezed his hand once before letting go. Reaching inside her jacket, she pulled out a small envelope, turning it over and over in her hands. The service she'd used had embossed it with pastel blue angels and clouds. She wedged a finger under the flap and looked up at him.

"Ready?" she asked.

A sudden lump in Ryan's throat kept him from speaking. He nodded and reached over, placing jittery hands over hers. She broke the seal and pulled out the small, plain white card. On it, in large block letters, were printed three words: CONGESTIVE HEART FAILURE.

Ryan let out a breath. The world was spinning, sparkling at the corners. His stomach felt like he was falling.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked, voice husky and strained.

Annie turned toward him, tears glistening on cheeks pulled tight by a shaky smile.

"We're going to have a baby," she whispered.

Story by James L. Sutter Ill.u.s.tration by Rene Engstrom

SHOT BY SNIPER.

LIEUTENANT GRALE CRAWLED THROUGH THE ASHEN SLOP BENEATH AND BEHIND THE SLANTED BILLBOARD THAT'D HALF-FALLEN FROM THE ROOF ABOVE, its Arabic advert made all but illegible, even to the locals. The machinegun fire crackling through the air was background and indistinct. If one were careless, the sound would become ambient, like the bustling traffic in New York or the steady hum of a computer.

A shot kicked up dirt in front of Grale's face. He pulled himself backward, back to the dubious protection of the fallen sign.

A sniper. "s.h.i.t."

He looked across the road. His men hadn't noticed yet.

"Sniper!"

Everyone moved at once, except for Paula. She was green, and waited just a second too long. She turned to face Grale, and as she did, she staggered backward, blood flying from her arm. Gearhead leapt out, grabbed her, and pulled her behind the cover of the still-standing wall of a long-destroyed hotel.

The sniper waited, silent.

Across the street from the fallen billboard, Grale's men looked at him, pasty-faced and wide-eyed. One of the men-Simmons-signed for him to stay put.

"No s.h.i.t, Simmons."

A panic swept through the men as they crouched behind the wall. They were reacting, d.a.m.n it, not thinking, and Paula's cries of pain were rattling loose what little cohesion they had. Grale needed to cross the street and reach them, and he needed to do so before the SNAFU became FUBAR.

But those three little words on that tiny slip of paper kept him from dashing across.

The focus of the panic shifted from Paula to Grale. They knew she'd be fine, after all. But the eyes on Grale hadn't the slightest shimmer of hope.No. They all knew Grale would die here. G.o.d d.a.m.n that machine.

It'd been a week ago, back when the insurgency seemed stoppable. A couple of rookie privates had found the machine in the wreckage of a casino. (Well, Grale called it a casino. The locals insisted it wasn't. The locals insisted a lot of things.) The machine still worked.

Grale had said to throw the d.a.m.n thing out, but most of the platoon kicked up a fuss. "It's one of the newer models," Gearhead had said, looking at it. "Forty different languages. Takes a pinp.r.i.c.k of blood-less than most blood-sugar machines-and it's supposed to be the wittiest model yet. Come on, Lieutenant? What harm will it do?"

Machines weren't infallible. That was Grale's sole understanding of computers, and even Gearhead (reluctantly, at times) agreed with him. So let the boys (and girls, Grale, you can't forget them) have their fun. Right?

"Says I'm going to drown."

"That blows."

"Paula-What's yours?"

"Uh-car accident."

"Oh, what the h.e.l.l? Mine says 'Killed by cow.'"

"A cow?"

"Always knew you'd amount to great things, Simmons."