I was stretched out on my couch, half watching some reality show I didn't care about,

scrolling through my phone, debating whether I should bother making dinner or just eat a bowl of dry cereal again.

Outside, the streetlights cast their familiar yellow glow over the empty road,

and the occasional car passed by, his

tires humming softly against the pavement.

Everything was still, the kind of quiet you only get in a small town late at night.

Then at 9.17 p.m., my phone buzzed violently in my hand, the jarring blare of an emergency

alert making me flinch.

The TV screen flashed red, cutting off mid-scene.

A robotic voice crackled over the speakers of my radio, which I hadn't even realized

was still plugged in.

The same message was everywhere.

We are sorry.

That was it.

No warning about a storm or some evacuation instructions.

Just a vague, meaningless phrase that sent a strange chill at my spine.

I sat up, phone still in my hand, staring at the words as they glowed on my screen.

We are sorry.

Sorry for what?

I flicked to my messages and texted Ryan, my friend who lives across town.

Did you get that?

The message sent instantly, and the typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.

...