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Keiko hustles down the stairs, emergency radio chittering under one arm, cat clawing the other, and stops at the sight of it. They said to take shelter in your basement, but she’d almost forgotten she kept a bomb down here.

The rain has eased up a little, and somewhere a train is whistling. Keiko sets down her squeaking burdens and pulls off the tarp: beautiful, baroque, her little hobby engine of destruction.

The walls are tearing; the roof is gone. The wind is tugging at her. So much time spent courting death, thinks Keiko, and here I am hesitating to commit.