[Brackets] by David Sloan

motion of an arm. Then crr-aaack! A window broke above them and the figure ran off down the trail.
    “Hey! Help!” Cole yelled.
    “What was that?” The cameraman, who had been filming them from across the deck , came out running .
    “Ms. Cheney!” Others came out when they heard the yelling. Deborah was rubbing her collarbone and using some language not fit for network broadcasting. Cole and Nera got tentatively up and stepped far away from the railing.
    “Is this what hit you?” a man asked, bringing something over to Cole. It was a polished stone ball like a giant marble, the size of a chestnut. It had been crudely painted orange with black lines. The pattern of a basketball. On one side, in permanent marker, was the name ‘ Cole ’. On the opposite side was the outline of a flame overwritten with the name ‘ Ichabod ’.
    “Who’s Ichabod?” asked Nera.
    A deafening bang rocked the deck and threw them again to the ground. Something had exploded from underneath. Smoke began to roll out from the windows beneath the patio ledge, along with screams of “Fire! Fire!” A mob swarmed out onto the patio, s ome r unning st raight to the ledge to try and jump off, most ru n ning to the stairs along the side of the building . Nera had the sense to grab Cole in the confusion and nearly drag him to the other end of the patio, avoiding the crushing flow of the mob. They huddled for a moment before joining the outgoing, panicked mass. In that moment, over the cacophony of the alarms and the crowd, Cole could somehow hear an energized voice announcing a basket for UCLA. They made it off of the patio and joined others who were standing around, gazing horror-struck at the tongues of flame that flickered out from the thick smoke surrounding the windows.
    The sound of speeding fire engines approached them from the city. Almost everyone around him had taken out their phones and were taking pictures and contacting people . Words like ‘bombs’, ‘terrorists’, and ‘arson’ emerged from the chatter . It was when he heard the word ‘arson’ that the identity of his attacker, the man who had been on his doorstep just a few nights before, finally clicked in Cole’s mind. The revelations hit him hard and fast. The facts were so obvious that a sense of his own blind foolishness, mixed with the adrenaline, nauseated him .
    It was cold. Before Cole could suggest that they go to one of their cars to get warm, he realized with a start that Nera was gripping his arm hard. She pulled him away f rom the crowd and spoke softly but intensely.
    “What was that, Cole? Tell me what’s going on.” Cole had never seen Nera angry before , and he felt timid against the ire directed at him , and against the facts that infuriated her .
    Someone had just tried to kill him. It was his name written on the rock. Someone who threw rocks into windows and set fire to buildings had singled him out as the target of an attack that would be all over the news before morning. That was even now burning one of Hartford’s hippest venues. That had injured a few and spooked everyone els e. That very easily could have…
    “Cole!” Nera wa s almost yelling at him. “Cole, who is Ichabod? Do y ou know him?”
    Like he had so many times over the past nine months, Cole found himself looking at Ne ra with no idea of what to say. Guilt clouded over his vocabulary.
    “Nera, I— I’m so sorry, I didn’t see any of this coming, I had no idea that this guy wa s trying to—you could have been— ”
    “ You could have been,” corrected Nera, looking at him fiercely. “He was trying to kill you , Cole. I would have just been collateral damage. Oh man, it’s going to take my mom about five seconds to hear about this on the news. She’s going to freak out.” She left his side and began craning her neck to find her Jetta in the shifting melee of first responders and on-look ers. “You know what? I don’t want to know what’s going on. I have to get home