I made the mistake of looking back. They all smiled and waved like everything was normal. Like they were normal. It made me feel even crazier.

By the time I cleared security and hurried down the concourse, my flight was boarding. Sidling down the aisle, I found my seat and stowed my backpack. Then I took out my phone. Updates, Mother? Be careful what you ask for.

Stellan: First plane ride ever! Waiting for takeoff. Trying to decide which parent I hate more.

I didn’t receive a response.

Stellan: Takeoff was smooth. The Viking funeral ship has sailed.

As the plane ascended, I gazed out the window and watched the fading shadow of the only home I’d ever known. Once the excitement of air travel dwindled, I nodded off. . . .

I slept the entire way to Atlanta, my connection city, waking as we were about to land. Despite the passage of hours, I was still furious with my parents. So I kept updating.

Stellan: Slept the whole flight. Drooled on passenger next seat over. Dreamed my parents were demented and had sent me to America to get murdered.

Mother: This isn’t funny. Stop immediately.

I didn’t stop.

Stellan: Thought about changing my next ticket from Colorado to Hollywood. Perhaps parents meant a different kind of star.

In the airport, I hurried down the escalator to catch the train between terminals, but just missed it. “Careful,” an automated voice said. “Doors are closing and will not reopen. Please wait for the next train.”

I took this opportunity to text my parents yet again.

Stellan: Heading toward a new terminal. Terminal can be an adjective as well as a noun. As in, *Stellan is terminal.*

No response.

When the next train arrived, I entered with everyone else and reached for an overhead strap. “Welcome aboard the plane train,” another automated voice told me. “The next stop is for E gates. E as in Echo.”

Echo. One of my powers was supposed to be echolocation. If I developed supernatural abilities, I would theoretically know how to use them, but so far there hadn’t even been a glimmer.

Not surprising. I was eighteen and still didn’t need to shave.

The train got under way, moving at a surprisingly fast—and rough—clip through an underground tunnel. Father was a mechanic who’d worked on trains for as long as I could remember. And he’d traveled as little as I had. I wondered what he would think about this automated people mover.

The lights flickered, and the car slowed. I glanced up, searching others’ expressions. Was this normal?

The train rolled to a hissing stop—between terminals.

Everyone was dialing their phones like crazy. Okay, so not normal, then. I tried to call my parents. Circuits were busy.

The lights flickered again. On and off.

On and off.

Darkness.

For some reason, this unplanned stop hadn’t tripped the train’s emergency mode. As far as the train knew, we were still chugging along.

Cell phones lit up the interior. People cast each other nervous glances.

When the tunnel rumbled, a woman cried out.

Weren’t there killer tornadoes in Georgia all the time? Great, my parents had sent me to be mangled by a twister.

One big, sweating American yanked at his T-shirt collar. The shirt read: Orgasm Donor. He grunted the syllables: “Clau-stro-pho-bic.” With a yell, he attempted to force open the doors.

I wanted to say, “Those won’t open as long as our gear is engaged.”

His eyes darted. “Can’t do this!”

A uniformed airport worker said, “Sir, just stay calm. They’ll have this figured out soon.”

“Back the fuck away from me.” People cowered from him.

The air was growing stifling, as if the temperature were spiking a degree a second. Sweat dripped from Big Guy’s face, soaking his shirt.

The rumbling in the tunnel increased to a substantial quake. In the distance, I thought I heard . . . a roar.

Big Guy went nuts, banging on the doors, kicking the safety glass, which cracked into a starburst but didn’t give.

Light shone from farther along the tunnel. The quality and intensity of the light seemed to come from a natural source of some kind. I thought it was . . . fire. Or even sun?

Which couldn’t be right. I checked the clock on my phone. Night. The sky should be getting darker.

A shrill shriek sounded. Then came an explosion. Before it could subside, there was another. And another . . . The roar was deafening.

Everyone hunched down. One man cried, “We’re under attack! Those must be bombs!”

Hardly. If bombs had been dropped, we’d all be dead. And who would blanket an airport in weak bombs? I thought it was an even worse scenario: airplanes were dropping out of the sky. “They’re planes,” I murmured.

Even over all the commotion, some guy in a suit heard me. “And how would you know about the planes? What are you doing with that phone?”

I swallowed. “Checking the time.” I stowed the phone in my pocket.

“Boy, you got yourself a weird accent,” Big Guy said—in a weird accent. “Why would you say planes are dropping?”

How to explain to a man wearing an orgasm-donor T-shirt that bombs didn’t make sense?

A screech drew our attention toward the front of the train, where the light was. Another train car was coasting toward us, seeming to roll with no brakes or power, just kinetic energy. A wayward train.

A ghost train.

People aimed their flashlight apps at the car. The exterior was charred black, and all the windows had been shattered. Was that blood splattered over the remaining shards of glass?