The apartment was already awake when Evan opened his eyes.
Not loud-awake. Just lived-in. Pipes ticking behind the walls. A car door slamming somewhere below. The neighbor's radio bleeding through the floor in a way that suggested the volume knob had been broken for years and nobody had bothered fixing it.
Evan lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The crack above his bed had gotten longer. He was pretty sure of it. It had curved slightly since last week, bending toward the light fixture like it was trying to escape.
He counted to ten before sitting up. It wasn't a ritual. Just a habit. Mornings felt better if he didn't rush them.
From the hallway came the sound of bare feet and a muttered complaint, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a chair being dragged across tile.
"Mom," his sister said, her voice thick with sleep. "He's using my spoon again."
"You have twelve spoons," their mom replied. "You'll survive."
Evan smiled to himself and got out of bed.
The kitchen was cramped in the way of places that were designed for fewer people than actually lived there. His dad sat at the table with his phone in one hand and a mug in the other, glasses sliding down his nose. His older brother leaned against the counter, already dressed, already half gone. His sister occupied the chair closest to the window, cereal box between her knees, glaring into her bowl like it had personally offended her.
"Morning," Evan said, reaching for the bread.
"Don't forget your math quiz," his mom said without looking up from the stove.
"I won't."
"You forgot last week."
"I forgot homework last week. Different thing."
His brother snorted. "That's not better."
Evan shrugged, sliding toast into the toaster. He didn't argue much. Arguing took energy, and mornings were for conserving it.
They talked about small things. The weather. A leak in the bathroom sink. His brother's upcoming game. His sister's ongoing feud with her teacher, who she insisted "hated creativity."
It was all very normal.
That mattered.
They left together, backpacks thumping, keys jangling. Their mom waved from the doorway like she always did, reminding them to text when they got to school even though they never did.
The walk to the bus stop took seven minutes if they didn't rush. Evan liked that number. It felt fair.
The bus was crowded in the way it always was—too many kids, too many voices, too much energy compressed into a narrow space. Evan took the window seat. His sister wedged in beside him. His brother stood near the back, one hand hooked over a pole, laughing with friends Evan only half recognized.
The bus lurched forward.
They crossed the bridge every day.
Evan had never thought about it before.
The first sign something was wrong was the driver's silence.
Usually he talked. Complained about traffic. Made dry comments about kids standing too close to the yellow line. This time, his hands tightened on the wheel, and the engine sound changed pitch.
Someone near the front asked what was happening.
The bus didn't slow enough.
The road ahead wasn't gone, exactly—but it wasn't right. The concrete sloped at an angle it shouldn't. A seam had opened down the middle, jagged and dark, like the road had split its mouth to scream.
"Hold on," the driver said.
Metal screamed instead.
The bus dipped, then tilted, weight shifting all at once. Evan's shoulder slammed into the window. His sister cried out, grabbing his arm. Someone fell into the aisle. Backpacks spilled. The world tilted and refused to settle.
They stopped.
Not safely. Not completely.
The front half of the bus hung over empty space.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then the bridge shuddered.
A sound snapped through the air—sharp, sudden, wrong—and the bus lurched again, harder this time. Gravity pulled. Screams filled the space, overlapping, panicked, too loud.
Evan's heart hammered. He could feel it in his throat, in his hands, in the way his breath came too fast and too shallow.
His sister was crying his name.
The bus slid.
Evan didn't think.
He reacted.
He opened his mouth.
The sound that came out of him didn't register as sound.
There was no word to remember later. No phrase he could replay. Just a pressure in his chest releasing all at once, like something had been braced and finally let go.
The world broke.
The bus didn't fall.
It exploded backward.
The sensation was less impact than erasure—air forced away, space collapsing, a violent absence where something had been. Evan was thrown sideways, then down, then everything went white.
When sensation returned, it came in fragments.
Heat. Dust. A high ringing that drowned out everything else.
He tasted blood.
Evan pushed himself up on shaking arms. The ground beneath him was cracked, spiderwebbed, pieces of asphalt lifted and folded like paper. The bus was no longer intact. Parts of it were embedded in the road. Other parts were simply gone.
The bridge was gone.
Cars on either side lay overturned or crushed. A truck smoldered against a bent guardrail. Storefront windows down the street had shattered inward, glass glittering across sidewalks like frost.
People screamed.
Some didn't move at all.
Evan turned, frantic, searching.
His sister lay several feet away.
She wasn't moving.
He crawled to her, hands slipping on debris, calling her name without realizing he was doing it until the sound caught in his throat and something answered back—not outward, but inside him, tight and coiled.
He clamped his mouth shut so hard his teeth hurt.
He shook her shoulder gently. Then harder.
She didn't respond.
Nearby, the bus driver was pinned against what remained of the front frame, alive and screaming for help, one leg twisted at an angle that made Evan look away. A woman staggered across the road clutching her arm, blood soaking her sleeve. Someone else was on their knees, sobbing, rocking back and forth beside a body that didn't move.
Evan spotted his brother near the curb.
He was facedown.
Evan stumbled to him, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might tear free. He rolled him over with shaking hands.
His brother's eyes were open.
They didn't focus.
Evan froze.
The ringing in his ears grew louder, swallowing the screams, the sirens that were beginning to wail somewhere far away.
He backed away, breathing too fast, chest tight, hands clenched into fists like that might hold something together.
Don't speak.
The thought came fully formed, not panicked—clear.
He didn't know why. He only knew that opening his mouth again felt wrong in a way that went beyond fear.
Evan pressed his lips together and kept them there.
By the time the helicopters arrived, there were fewer voices.
Men in unfamiliar uniforms moved through the wreckage with practiced speed. They spoke into radios. They set up barriers. They covered bodies with blankets.
Someone tried to ask Evan questions.
He didn't answer.
A medic knelt in front of him, gentle hands checking his pupils, his pulse. "Can you tell me your name?" she asked.
Evan looked past her, at the space where the bus had been.
He shook his head once.
Later—he wouldn't know how much later—a black van pulled up at the edge of the cordon. No markings. No lights. Just presence.
A man stepped out and watched Evan for a long moment before approaching.
"We're going to take care of you," he said carefully. "You're safe now."
Evan didn't believe him.
But he didn't fight.
He climbed into the van without a sound, jaw clenched, eyes dry and burning.
Behind him, the bridge burned.
Ahead of him, the doors closed.
And Evan did not speak again.