Under Fire, part 21

There are dust bunnies under here: I'm on the phone with a client when the sirens go off and we start taking hits. "Gotta go!" I trill. "We'll talk later!" There is a distant thud, a closer boom, a much closer boom, and then I'm under my desk. The client, situated comfortably in the center of the country, is oblivious. As I hang up the phone, the rational part of my brain that copes with things like Large Projectile Missiles Falling on My Neighborhood cuts out, and I find myself focusing on the small clumps of dust, cat hair, and dead flies that have accumulated around my computer cables.

I'm definitely losing it.

The sirens are going off again as I type this. This makes only seven occurrences today, yet we've taken more hits than yesterday; that last barrage was heavy enough to warrant a Ynet blurb. Nadine disappears upstairs to the psychological safety of her new hiding place: a tiny crevice between the wall and the back of the sofa.

I wonder if she, too, is contemplating the dust bunnies.