The sky is black and they won't tell us why.

I'm tellin you, Winston says, dey invented some cockamamie weapon to fight dem core-dinated riots, only someone messed up bigtime. Blacked out de whole sky.

You know this for a fact? I ask. We're seated at the table in the OR lounge. Winston's 42 but until last month he looked about 28; now, 60ish. Tipping a waterbottle to his lips, he rolls his eyes.

Dunno nuffin for a fact no more.

So what are you saying?

Hell, I ain't sayin shit. Just shootin it.

None of us knew what to think when the military arrived. Their Hummers appeared a few hours after the sky'd blackened, carrying supplies, weapons, and of course soldiers — edgy, frightened young men and women rigid with orders. They prevented no one from leaving but made it clear that if you got in their way, they'd thrash you ruthlessly and methodically. One woman, I never knew her personally but I'd seen her face in the halls, I watched that face get cleaved in half by a rifle butt, one blow, glazed eyes staring in different directions, a brain-exposing fissure obliterating her nose. Assaults like that go a long way in deterring others from trying any funny stuff.

When's de next people hafta be down? Winston asks.

Half an hour.

Maybe I'll go help Elena in de sterile corridor.

A minute passes; he hasn't moved. Sterile corridor, I say.

Yeah yeah...continue