Into the Floorboards

He looked at me, holding his backpack by its strap, suspended above the kitchen floor. I just stood there, gripping the counter, dumbly looking back at him with my mouth half-open. In the next room, I heard the baby crying while the public warning system buzzed an angry alert on the TV.

"It's happening NOW. We need to leave NOW. We're already too late. Please. Get Isaac's bag and let's go."

Then, there was a deafening noise overhead, like intense thunder. The light fixtures rattled and the TV blinked off. Isaac's crying escalated into a wail.

And, just like that, we were running.

The front door of the blue-and-white house I loved swung back and forth behind me, and I could hear the sound of my little American Dream disintegrating into the floorboards of the veranda.