He opens the door to find a Girl Scout standing there, carrying a carton full of multicolored cookie boxes.
“Hi, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”
“Aren’t you a little old to be a Girl Scout?” Lev asks with a smirk.
“Actually,” the girl says, “you’re never too old, and anyway, I’m only fourteen. But yes, usually it’s the younger girls who sell cookies, so you’re right in a sense. I’m helping out my younger sister, if you must know. So can I come in? It’s cold out here.”
The girl is kind of cute, and kind of funny, and Lev does have a weak spot for Samoas, as well as cute, funny girls. “Sure, come on in—let’s see what you’ve got.”
She practically waltzes through the door and sets the box down on the dining room table, pulling out one of each variety.
“Hey, Marcus,” Lev calls, “you want some Girl Scout cookies?”
“Sure,” his brother calls from the kitchen. “Get me the peanut butter.”
“Make that two,” calls Dan.
Lev turns to the girl. “Okay, so two of the peanut butter ones, and a box of Samoas.”
“Yum-yum!” she says. “The Samoas are my favorite too.” She hands him the boxes. “That’ll be eighteen dollars—are you sure you don’t want any Thin Mints? They’re our bestseller!”
“No thanks.” He pulls out his wallet, pretty sure he doesn’t have enough cash, but he wants to check before asking Marcus. As he looks through his wallet, the girl has time to look at him.
“I know you, don’t I?” she says.
Lev suppresses a heavy sigh. Here it comes.
“Yeah—you’re that guy—the clapper! Wow, I’m selling cookies to the clapper kid!”
“I didn’t clap,” Lev tells her flatly, and mercifully finds a twenty in his wallet and hands it to her. “Here. Thanks for the cookies. Keep the change.”
But she doesn’t take the money. Instead she puts her hands on her hips, continuing to look him over. “A clapper who doesn’t clap. Kind of defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”
“You should go now.” He waves the money at her, but she still won’t take it.
“Keep your money. The cookies are my gift to you.”
“No. Just take the money and go.”
Her eyes are locked on his now. “A clapper who doesn’t clap. I imagine that would really tick off people in high places. People who put their time and money into making sure every clapper mission goes off without a hitch.”
Lev suddenly gets a feeling in the pit of his stomach that goes straight down to China.
“They’re very proactive, these organizers, and a clapper who doesn’t complete his mission gives all of us a bad name.”
Then she smiles and holds out her hands wide.
“Marcus! Dan!” yells Lev. “Get down!”
“Here’s another gift,” says the girl. “Let me unwrap it for you.” And she swings her hands together.
Lev leaps over the sofa for cover as her hands connect. All it takes is a single clap. The explosion blows Lev back against the wall, and the sofa flips on top of him, pinning him there. Shattering glass, crumbling timbers—and a shooting pain in his ears so bad he’s convinced his skull has split open. Then, in a few moments, the sounds of the explosion fades, leaving behind an intense ringing in his ears, and a clear sense that the world has just ended.
Smoke begins to burn his lungs and make his eyes tear. He forces the sofa off himself, and as he looks across the room, he sees his bed, which was upstairs just a few moments ago, now lying in the living room like a shipwreck. There is no upstairs now—and there is no roof beyond that, only the cloud-filled sky, while all around him flames eagerly fight to consume the wreckage.
Dan, who was on his way out into the living room when the girl clapped, was blasted backward against the wall. A huge bloodstain in the rough shape of his body marks his impact, and now he lies a lifeless heap on the floor. Pastor Dan—the man who told Lev to run on his tithing day, the first one to visit him once he was in police custody, the man who had become more of a father to him than his own father—is dead.
“No!!”
Lev crawls over the ruins toward Dan’s body, but then sees his brother in the kitchen. A beam has fallen in the middle of the room, shattering the glass breakfast table and embedding itself in his brother’s gut. There’s blood everywhere—but Marcus is still alive. He’s conscious, and he shudders as he tries to speak, choking on blood.
Lev doesn’t know what to do, but he knows if he doesn’t clear his head enough to act, his brother will die too.
“It’s okay, Marcus, it’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not.
With all his strength, Lev lifts the beam. Marcus screams in pain, and Lev, holding the beam up with his shoulder, pushes Marcus out of the way, then lets the beam go. The whole rest of the beam comes down, taking out what little was left of the table with a loud crash. Lev reaches into Marcus’s pocket, pulls out a blood-soaked phone and, praying it still works, dials 911.
- - -
Lev, covered in soot and ears still ringing, refuses his own ambulance. He insists on riding with Marcus and makes such a stink that they let him.
His left ear flutters with every sound, like a moth has found its way inside. His vision is blurry, and time itself seems to have altered. It’s like Lev and Marcus have been thrust into an alternate dimension where cause and effect are all confused. Lev can’t figure out if he’s here because the girl blew up, or if the girl blew up because he’s here.
The paramedics work on Marcus as they speed to the hospital, injecting him with God knows what.
“L-L-Lev,” Marcus says, his eyes struggling to stay open.
Lev grabs his hand, sticky and brown from drying blood. “I’m here.”
“Keep him awake,” the paramedic tells him. “We don’t want him to go into shock.”