No. There is a tightening in my chest. Something is wrong. My brother’s frail arm disappears into the dark. I step back and pin myself to the wall. Some voices are shouting from the rooftops – then a whistling sound, like a mechanical scream – it comes. The billowing dust – three streets away – and then the earsplitting boom. I cannot move. Cymbals and drums, cymbals and drums, I say to myself, echoing the sound. I am blinking. Shattering bombs. And then silence, no sirens. It is not good. Then a child’s cry, a mother’s shout. Just stay. Empty street. Wall. Me. Terror.