“The moon’s beautiful, Alice.”
I’ve named her after my daughter, dead by now, I hope.
A missile flares through the dust and smoke.
“And listen: a party down the hall.”
Their howling is growing closer.
“You look lovely today, honey.”
The girl is so withered it looks as though the life-support machines are feeding on her.
I take her little hand, and for once I don’t lie.
“I’ll be right here, Alice.”