Harmonic: Resonance Read Free Page A

from across the room.
    “I’ll be back to check on you in a while, okay?” He touched my shoulder briefly, stood, and rushed to the back of the hall, where someone was being wheeled in on a stretcher through the open doors.
    I continued running my fingers along my new hairline, an asymmetric Mohawk, accented by a stitched wound three inches long. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hoping the pounding headache would subside even a little if I kept still, but it remained and worsened when I tried to think about the events of the recent past.
    ***
    Reduced to no more than a wincing spectator, I watched as Harris kicked the spade into the dirt, turned, and tipped the removed turf and dirt onto the dry grass behind him. I heard my sobbing and a rustling sound from somewhere behind me. I turned to see the heaped canvas drop sheet move from side to side and then fold in the middle. The body inside the sheet sat up and turned its head to face me.
    I opened my eyes to Powell, crouched down at my side, with his hand on my shoulder.
    “You okay? You were crying in your sleep.” He spoke softly.
    I managed a nod but couldn’t stop the tears. He put an arm around me as I sat, leaned against his chest.
    “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have better things to do than comfort a hysterical girl with a Mohawk,” I sobbed.
    “You deserve as much of my time as anyone else,” he said.
    “Your name’s Powell?”
    “John Powell, but everyone calls me Powell.”
    “I’m Emily. Emily Tanner.”
    “You have a bad dream? There’s a lot of those going around.” The vibration through his chest added a soothing lower octave to his voice. I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off to sleep again, unable to protest.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    07 | The meek
     
    I remained still, curled up in the fetal position under the blanket, waiting for the painkillers to metabolize as I watched Powell tend to the wounded. My eyes would open to little more than a squint, and any attempt to track movement caused a pressure behind my eyes that forced me back into a temporary daze. I kept my own movements slight and gentle to avoid agitating the hornet’s nest in my head.
    Eventually, the painkillers eroded the sharp edges of pain, allowing me to stand without added discomfort, and I made my way across the hall to Powell.
    “Is there anything I can do to help?”
    “Do you know how to dress a wound?” he asked.
    I shook my head and winced at the stinging pain within. “No, sorry, but I'm a quick learner; if you have the time to show me how.”
    “That’s okay. If you want to help, you can take a walk around, make sure everyone is comfortable, hand out blankets, water, and food. What supplies we have are over behind the piano,” he said and pointed to the corner of the hall.
    “Okay.” I offered a smile. “Thank you for sewing me up.”
    Powell smiled back. “You’re welcome. It’s what I’m here for.”
    I made the rounds, answering requests for supplies with whatever was available. There were faces I recognized—the teenage boy who worked at the gas station, members of staff from the building supply place, cashiers from the supermarket, and several families my dad had worked for over the years. Following the realization I was Jack Tanner’s daughter, some asked about my father, offering their sympathies and condolences when I informed them of his passing. Mine was not the only story of loss; people had lost their homes and pets, and some had lost family members. Their stories were of exploding appliances, lines of fire climbing the bedroom walls, futile attempts to put out the fires with extinguishers or buckets of water, and of relatives lost to the flames. The town had apparently burned for a week—hundreds of small fires growing and joining arms, sweeping through stores, leaping from one building to the next, flanking firefighters, pushing them back and out. Homes on the outskirts of town had gone up in flames and burned to ash in a