Free From the Fire by Kent David Kelly Page B

where Richman Street turned into the Ameristar casino. Nothing unusual, but she could hear people shouting. And someone crying . And hundreds more were — what? Was that chanting ? She turned the radio down. The clamor of outraged protesters came to her through the window-glass.
    ~
    “No more lies!
    No more nukes!
    Free Farhadi!
    Tell us the truth!”
    ~
    What in the Hell was going on?
    Can’t take this anymore. Lacie is fine. She’s with grandma. You just need to get this under control and she can come home. Sophie turned her wedding ring with her thumb, tried to stop her hands from shaking. She’s fine.
    Looking back past the pickup and at the line of gamblers’ cars slowing down behind her, Sophie clicked her turn signal on. But the cars in the lane to the left of her were already too close together to let her in. The driver alongside, Mrs. Claverdale no less, waved her an apology. Sophie mouthed, “No problem” and gave a shrug. The silvery-haired old woman snarled dramatically at the unseen protesters blocking the intersection up ahead, and Sophie laughed once more. Her voice had a nervous edge to it, an hysterical edge, like crystal. She didn’t like it.
    Taking a last long drink of her sugary coffee, she resigned herself to a tedious wait in the right-hand lane. Always. Always, I’m too far from home, she thought. Too selfish. Too alone.
    The voice on the radio changed. She had successfully tuned out Chris -tine Col -lins and the BBC, but now it was Jake Handler again on the microphone, a man she respected and knew personally. A good friend of Tom’s. She turned the volume back up and was comforted by Jake’s trademark polite annoyance at giving his air time to someone else. But he also sounded — what? Sophie’s mouth tensed into a straight line of enforced calm. Jake Handler, a man who hunted wolves in his spare time with a bow and arrow and stayed out in the wilderness alone for weeks at a time, making sure he only killed starving animals who had no pups, was afraid. No, he was controlling it, but he was terrified .
    His voice echoed in little spirals around the Hummer’s interior as Sophie’s right hand shook a little harder, turning the radio up too high. “Once again, thank you Christine,” Jake was saying sarcastically back at the BBC tape, “but meanwhile here in the States, we have actual and new news about the real emergency developing since this afternoon in downtown NYC. Tensions in Manhattan and Jersey and far beyond today are continuing to soar out of control. At the, ah, in the intersection of Tudor City Place and, ah … East Forty-First, now this I repeat is in New York City right by the United Nations Headquarters … protesters broke down police barricades and, and they attempted to block Russian and Chinese delegates from entering the United Nations. A fistfight broke out, and someone fired shots. A staffer to Ambassador Dmitri Altukhov, let’s see, her name is — was — Vasilisa Mirskii. He’s elderly, she was shielding him. She was, she was killed, okay? By the protesters, by the police? No one seems to know.”
    “So far in the police and Federal crackdown, continuing into this evening, we have reports of … what is this, nine American citizens confirmed dead, including two innocent bystanders and one policeman, names being withheld. What? Okay, okay. And we have, what? Christ. Ah, forgive. Forgive me, everyone. Please. We have reports of one hundred and eighty-seven injured. Solidarity protests are springing up in cities and towns across the nation at this hour, including in our very own beloved Black Hawk and Central City, they’re calling it Occupy Intersections . Can you believe that?”
    “So. So, okay. I don’t know. I don’t know. Please , please keep the lines open because we’re just three of us here and we’re waiting for more. What? No. I’m not saying that. Look, I’m on, okay? People, please wait for this to pan out with Associated. Don’t listen to