He had learned early that being small and quiet made people look past you. He didn’t mind. Being invisible kept you safe.
That Tuesday morning he had walked four blocks to the community center soup kitchen with a note from Clara in his pocket: “Breakfast at 7. I love you. — Nana.”
He was halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs when the floor bucked like an animal trying to throw him off.
Ceiling tiles rained down. Windows exploded inward. Tables flipped. Someone screamed.
When the shaking stopped, Noah crawled out from under his table, stepped through the broken window frame, and started walking toward the smoke.
Two blocks later he saw the motorcycle shop — or what was left of it.
The front wall had pancaked inward. A sign dangled from one hinge: Delgado’s Custom Cycles.
And from somewhere inside the pile, a little girl was crying for her daddy.
