plosion, a memory so real it made my skin prickle. In my first life, that was

gritty reality of a derelict industrial lot on the edge of our

y, don't mov

only reason I stayed married to her son. She stood frozen a few yards away, her face a

gain. Not the same bomb, not the sa

voice steadier than I felt.

y parents, was already there, his face grim. "We need Andrew," he said,

e. I called him over and over while he was out with his high school sweetheart, Sabrina

I said, the wor

"What are you talking about

parents had saved his mother from a flash flood years ago, dying in the process. It was a debt I thought I had to repay, a promise to look

w. This time, I wouldn't beg. This time, t

, looked horrified. "We can go get him," one of them, a boy named

ry paycheck on her, buying her designer bags while his own mother scavenged

my voice devoid of e

their youthful optimism a stark contrast to the cold certainty in my heart. They would come bac