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Beatrice McCoy had lived next to a volcano for all eighty-two years of her life, and she was almost certain it was never going to erupt.
Mt. Ursula had been dormant long before Beatrice was born, and she expected it to remain that way long after her bones were laid to rest under the dirt and moss that made up her home. When she was a little girl, she’d stay up, staring out her window where she could see the volcano’s peak in the distance. She used to worry about it waking suddenly, destroying her beloved town with ash and smoke. When she expressed her concerns to her mother, she’d smooth down her hair and assure her Ursula was fast asleep. “Everything is just fine, bumble Bea,” she’d tell her. “You’re safe.” Despite her skepticism in her earlier years, Beatrice had formed a bond with the sleeping volcano. She no longer saw Mt. Ursula as a threat, but as a friend watching over them, a reassuring presence. So when the TV flashed the evacuation warning that morning, Beatrice went about her usual routine without so much as a pursing of her lips or a creased brow. She walked into the kitchen, spooned her coffee grounds into the filter, and reveled in the sound of it brewing. The slow drip turned to a steady stream as it filled her favorite mug—though it was chipped now, she could never bring herself to use another. Lenny had gotten it for her for their 10th anniversary. The Jury is Out
I sit in the courtroom, not sure if I’m the prosecution, or the defense, or the judge, or the jury. I may be all of them. You sit at the stand, tap the mic, and ask if this thing is on, and it is, but it’s popping and cracking and making that awful, high-pitched sound. We all cover our ears. There’s a slight murmur among the crowd. |