America

By Stacey Lounsberry

Her foot lays heavy on the pedal and the radio drones just above the engine’s thrumming, snaking up in wispy highs, fading out in the lows. Except for the occasional standouts, it sounds eerily like something possessed. “Mass…blocked…attack…” She twists her left earring, guessing at the news story: mass shooting; cancer patient interview; something tech-y. Listener’s pick. This is America.

Home, she shuts off the engine. A mild wind licks at her neck through the opened window. Then, in the stillness, a firework fizzes across the street, rocketing sideways, angled at her right eye like a perfect arrow. “Oh, shi—”