Free Fire Will Fall by Carol Plum-Ucci

around to make their walls? All I know is what I dream and what I smell. Don't pick on me."
    "Sorry," I muttered glibly. He could be totally defensive. If you're going to believe in an apocalypse, you have to be.
    "I miss Mom. I need a Mom hug." He sighed. Mom listened to everything Owen ever had to say and never laughed at him. I felt unequipped, totally, to stand in for her.
    But I reached my arms around him for what turned out to be a no-good hug. I was uptight, and not because he was a sweaty mess from walking downstairs while doing battle with the Q3 in his hip joints. Nothing bodily grosses me out. It's because I had this fuckin' thought:
What if I smell smoke?
Before I could think, I was holding my breath while I tried to hug him like Mom used to. I even laid this big kiss on his cheek like he used to get from her. But he swung away, looking about as gratified as a kid who's craving ice cream and gets a mouthful of lima beans.
    Cora was standing at the head of the table when we entered the dining room, and the reason she never brought me my slushy stood beside her. The guy was tall, had a couple of inches on me at six-one.
    "This is Mr. Calloway, whom I was telling you about," she said as we walked in, then turned to Owen. "He's with the historical society. He's going to refresh me on black-and-white photo development in a minute."
    "Henry. Please." The man put out his hand to shake, and when I threw back my hands and pointed to my neck, he understood nicely enough. "Perhaps we should practice Far Eastern traditions around here, to avoid contagion." He bowed at us, which made Owen grin distractedly.
    "You and I have already met," Henry said to him, picking up a file folder off the table. "I was at your last Thanksgiving Day football game."
    "Trinity versus Mainland? Really?" Owen sank down in a chair I pulled out for him and shook out a sore leg. Football. That would get him thinking normally for a while.
    "Yes. I saw your first interception and didn't think anything could top that."
    My brother actually laughed. His second interception was more dramatic—at least it looked that way from the sidelines. He got some height that came out of nowhere. In the
Atlantic City Press
photo, Jim Grimes, Mainland's running back, was all but eating Owen's ass when he intercepted.
    "Did I meet you that day?" Owen asked in confusion.
    "Not exactly." He opened the file and handed my brother a fairly big photo. I looked. Owen's number 72 took up the whole frame as he was run into the sidelines. Obviously, Henry had shot the photo a split second before getting smacked in the face by him and the Mainland player.
    Owen smiled big. It was a nice move, bringing that picture. "Are you ... all right?"
    "Fine, fine. I was a track star in college. Despite that I'm turning thirty soon, I can still be fast when I'm about to be creamed."
    "Wow. May I have this?"
    "Absolutely."
    I meandered into the kitchen to find Marg. I pointed at my throat as she was getting ready to turn on the blender full of oranges and ice cubes. She had our charts on clipboards on the walls already, and I looked at them while she blended. On top was the monthly calendar, obviously sent by St. Ann's. There was a green X for every headache. My brother's had twice as many as the rest of us—nothing new to me but ominous to look at. I grabbed a wet paper towel for Owen's sweaty hands. Marg put a glass in my grip and spun me toward the door, or away from the charts is probably more accurate.
    Owen sat staring at a muffin in front of him, but he and Henry were talking about the game still as he let me wipe down his palms and fingers.
    "You got sisters and brothers in Mainland?" Owen asked.
    "No. My family's from Massachusetts. But I'd just started a new job and two of my bosses had kids at Mainland. So I went with them."
    I debated over whether to do battle with a muffin myself and decided against it, sending more slushy down my throat. It felt good.
    "Where do you work?" Owen