CTIA

The familiar rhythm of Friday morning began, but a subtle unease clung to the air.

At the dinner table, the usual boisterous chatter was replaced by an unsettling quiet. My father, Lewis Rena, typically the life of the party, sat uncharacteristically subdued. Beside him, my mother, Kita, usually the warm anchor of our family, was also unusually silent. Across from me, Jackie, my little sister, picked at her food, while her twin, Jazz, fiddled with her fork, both sensing the tension.

“Mom, Dad,” I ventured, my voice barely a whisper, “is everything okay? You guys are really quiet.”

They exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance, a look I couldn't quite decipher. Then, my father cleared his throat. “It’s just… something with work, Brey,” he said, his tone dismissive. My mother nodded, a strained smile on her face. “Nothing for you to worry about, sweetie.”

They almost never spoke about work, only ever mentioning that they worked for a 'private company in the justice system.' I just assumed it was some complicated adult matter. After a quick, awkward dinner, I retreated to my room, the quiet lingering like an unwelcome guest, and soon fell asleep, eager for the weekend.

The next morning, Saturday, dawned with the promise of our usual family movie outing. My favorite book had just been adapted into a film, “Best Friends and the Cute Guy,” a cheesy but endearing mafia romance. Jackie, however, had chosen an animated spy movie. I felt a piece of my soul die in that theater as she abandoned us for her friends in the back row. When the credits finally rolled, we piled back into the car, heading home.

Traffic was a nightmare. After an hour of stop-and-go frustration, my dad turned down a side street, hoping for a shortcut. As we approached an intersection, a blinding flash of headlights consumed us. Then, the world exploded.