I grabbed Lily and we ran to the house of the neighbor across the street, Mrs. Harper, a seventy-year-old widow who always swept her driveway in her dressing gown and whom Derek considered “an unbearable meddle.” I crossed the garden without asking permission and started knocking on the door.
“Open it!” Open up, please!
The truck started.
A low, threatening noise.
It took Mrs. Harper forever to open it, but when she saw my face and Lily’s she asked no questions. He pulled us inside and closed with a double lock.
“Call the police,” I said, panting. They’re coming, but there’s a man outside.
“Good God,” she murmured.
We peek through a crack in the curtain. The truck was still there. Motionless. As if waiting for a sign.
And then the signal came.
It was not a cinematic explosion. Not at first. It was a dull, hollow blow, as if the house were breathing its last from within. The front windows vibrated. A second later came the real rumble.
The façade was lit up orange.
The windows shattered outwards.
The front door was thrown out in a cloud of smoke, wood and fire.
Lily screamed and buried her face in my abdomen.
I couldn’t move.
I watched our house burn as a single thought pierced my head, over and over again: if we had walked out the door, we’d be dead.
Mrs. Harper held my arm.
“Don’t look, darling.
But I couldn’t stop looking.
The truck started immediately.
Not towards us.
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