Chapter 2

9 June

The waiting room outside the base commander’s office was a purgatory of beige walls and buzzing fluorescent lights provided by the lowest bidder. Riley hated the silence above all else.

A phone sounded somewhere behind the secretary’s desk. One of the executive officers snatched it up before the second ring. “Brigadier General Harding’s office.” His voice became a murmur of yes sir and right away.

A C-130 rumbled overhead, engines droning through the ceiling tiles. Riley’s eyes tracked toward the window, his hands twitching in his lap. The blinds were drawn tight, slatted shut against the world. He longed to see the plane.

The vinyl chair squeaked every time he shifted in his service dress uniform. His coat cinched too tight across his shoulders, and every time he breathed, the fabric pulled against his chest. The tie was a dark blue noose wrapped around his throat. He felt like an accountant in a costume, sentenced to death by desk.

Beside him, Master Sergeant Manny Reyes sat with the perfect frozen posture of a career NCO who had spent fifteen years learning exactly how much trouble silence could fend off. His uniform was immaculate. Creases sharp. Chevrons aligned to the millimeter. His ribbons formed a perfect rectangle over his left breast pocket.

Riley leaned in, keeping his voice low so Bobbi wouldn’t hear from her desk outside Harding’s door. “You didn’t have to be here, Manny. This is an officer hanging.” He jerked his chin toward the closed oak doors. “They’re coming for my head, not yours.”

Manny didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on a framed photograph on the opposite wall: an F-4 Phantom, wings swept back, afterburners blazing against a twilight sky.

“Crew decision, boss,” Manny said. “As the senior NCO, I bear just as much of the blame. We all agreed to stay. Every one of us knew what we were doing.” He paused. “They burn you, they burn me.”

The loyalty hit Riley in the gut. He opened his mouth to argue, to tell Manny he was being stupid. But it was useless. The flight engineer would sooner cut off his arm than send Riley to swing on the gallows alone.

The heavy doors swung open on oiled hinges. “Gentlemen,” General Harding’s voice drifted out. “Come on in.” He sounded tired. Like a man who had been awake for days.

Riley stood, instinctively tugging the front of his jacket over his belt. No amount of rubbing would make the polyester look right. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, smoothing down the wild edges of his mustache.

The air-conditioning from the inner office hit Riley’s face. It was cold and sterile, smelling of lemon polish and fresh coffee mixed with something else. Cigar smoke, maybe. It had long since baked into the carpet and walls.

Harding’s office stretched wider than Riley had expected. His gaze sailed past the leather furniture, past the ancient wood paneling and endless rows of framed photos. Through the glass, the flight line sprawled under the Philippine sun. A row of C-130s baked on the tarmac. Beyond them, he saw the distinctive silhouette of a B-52 on the apron, wings strapped down. His chest burned. He belonged out there.

“Major Riley. Master Sergeant Reyes.” General Harding’s words pulled him back.

The base commander was sitting behind a mahogany desk big enough that Lieutenant Klamm could have landed on it. The wood gleamed in a way that Harding did not.

Riley and Manny marched to the center of the round rug bearing the Air Force seal. Their heels struck the carpet in unison. They snapped to attention, spines rigid, eyes fixed on the wall behind Harding’s head.

“Major Wade Riley, reporting as ordered, sir.” He gave a sharp salute.

Harding waved a hand. “At ease.”

Riley shifted his feet to shoulder-width and clasped his hands behind his back. The tension didn’t leave. It never did in this room.

Movement flickered in his peripheral vision. To his left, at a small conference table sat two officers, judges at a tribunal.

Lieutenant Colonel Joe Vance, the 31st Special Operations Squadron commander, occupied the near chair. His service dress was ironed and tailored. Short, graying hair curled over the top of his head, not a strand out of place. Square jaw. Green eyes that usually sparkled. Today those eyes were fixed on the legal pad in front of him. He wouldn’t meet Riley’s gaze.

That told Riley everything he needed to know.

The man beside Vance was another story. Major Sheldon Klein leaned forward in his seat. The wing safety officer was slight, with narrow shoulders and a receding hairline sharpening into a pronounced widow’s peak. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thin nose. A thick three-ring binder sat open before him, exploding with colored tabs and sticky notes.

He studied Riley with the expression of a cat that had not only caught the canary but had already drafted a memo on why the canary deserved it.

“Get on with it, Colonel Vance,” Harding said.

Vance cleared his throat. He didn’t look up from his notes. “Major Riley, Master Sergeant Reyes. Based on the preliminary incident report filed yesterday, we have classified the destruction of tail 68-0844 as a Class A mishap.” His speech sounded rehearsed. “As the total damages will exceed five million dollars, Air Force Instruction requires a formal Safety Investigation Board.”

“The crash is the least of it, General,” Klein said. His finger found the red tab in the binder. “Dash-1 violations. Willful disregard for crew safety. Operating outside certified structural limits.” His glasses caught the fluorescent light, turning his eyes into blank white discs. “I’ve been flagging Major Riley’s flight discrepancies for eight months. The man’s a menace.”

He flipped the page to a yellow tab. “Yesterday’s actions speak for themselves, General.” Klein’s manner was almost reasonable. “Major Riley ignored a mandatory recall order from Clark Tower. He continued flight operations with a known onboard emergency. A transmission failure over open water would have killed everyone.” He let that sit. “Instead, he stayed on station. Nine people’s lives depended on Major Riley following established safety protocols. He chose not to—a direct conflict with established procedure.”

Klein closed the binder and smiled. His hand remained on top, pressing it shut. “However, as the convening authority for the safety investigation, I have some discretion on whether to recommend an Accident Investigation Board for punitive action. The offender could accept a Flight Evaluation Board in lieu of a full AIB. Quieter. Faster. No public records.” He shrugged. “He’d lose his wings, of course. But the wing’s reputation stays clean.”

Major Klein sat perfectly still for a moment. One finger found the bridge of his glasses and pushed them up. “I could have it done today if you desire, General.”

An FEB. Accept the ruling, and they’d strip Riley’s wings quietly. No trial, no appeal. Just a one-way ticket to a desk. Klein’s version of revenge to feed his inferiority complex.

Riley’s tether snapped.

The heels of his dress shoes bit the rug as he stepped forward. “You want my wings?” He planted a hand on the edge of the table, leaning into Klein’s personal space. “You little bastard . . . You don’t get to judge me. Not for this. I saved those people, Shelly. That’s the job.”

Klein didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “No. Your job is to follow regulations so we don’t endanger lives. The aircraft, the crew, the passengers—all of it falls under your responsibility.” He tapped the binder again. “You gambled with people’s lives because you decided the rules don’t apply to you. I assure you, they do.”

Riley stepped back, giving a bitter laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, exposing the out-of-regulation cut. “Colonel Vance, you know the mission. We put ourselves at risk so that others may live. That’s the whole damn code. Have we suddenly decided machines are more important than people?”

“Wade.” The squadron commander rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his palms down his cheeks. When he looked up, his green eyes were disappointed. “Stop. Just stop.”

“I can’t, sir. I can’t ignore people just because it’s dangerous.”

“No one doubts your bravery,” Vance continued. “No one in this room thinks you’re a coward. You’re a hell of a pilot. You might be the best stick I’ve ever seen. But you put us in an impossible position.” He gestured vaguely toward the window and the world beyond. “The three-star already heard about it. Called me at home last night on my personal line, wanted to know what happened. Then he asked if I enjoyed being a commander.”

“Did you tell him we saved six people who would be dead? That we risked our lives for others?” Riley asked.

Vance set his pen down. “I told him we had a mishap. That we were investigating. That the right people would be held accountable to ensure the proper message is sent across the fleet.”

Riley opened his mouth. With Klein and Vance aligned against him, there was little left to lose. “Oh really—”

Manny cleared his throat.

Every head in the room turned. Harding looked up from his desk, his eyebrows climbing. Generals didn’t expect enlisted men to speak up in meetings like this. Manny had just broken the natural order of things.

“You have something to add, Master Sergeant?” Harding asked.

Manny’s heels clicked together as he snapped to attention. His spine went rigid, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the general’s head.

“Yes, sir.” He kept his delivery steady. “That was a crew coordination action. A decision made as a crew. We assessed the danger against the lives in the water.” He paused. “Every member of the crew agreed to stay on station. We knew the risks. We accepted them together.”

His dark eyes dropped to meet Harding’s gaze. “If you take his wings for saving lives, sir, then you probably have to take mine too. Along with the crew’s.” Another pause. “We’re united on that.”

Riley stared at Manny. Stubborn bastard. Loyal to the bone. The room remained silent as a jet engine spooled up somewhere outside.

Klein shrugged. “I could add their names to the FEB. If they want to fall on their swords, that’s their choice.”

Vance scooted his chair away from Klein as he turned to look at the safety officer. “Hold on. That would be a PR nightmare. Let’s not be hasty.”

Riley glared at Klein. The man was willing to burn every member of that crew just to prove he was right.

The art of flying required seeing threats before they developed. But he’d missed the trap set by Klein. This time, he’d flown straight into a box canyon.

He wouldn’t take Manny down with him.

“I’ll take the FEB.” The words felt wrong. “Just leave the crew out of this.”

Manny’s head snapped toward him. “Boss—”

“Shut up, Manny.”

Klein reached for his binder and pulled out a crisp white sheet. “A wise decision. I happen to have the paperwork right here.”

“Put it away, Sheldon,” Harding said.

The safety officer gawked. “No. He agreed. It’s binding.”

Harding’s palm slammed against the desk.

The crack of flesh on mahogany made Riley flinch—made everyone flinch. Coffee sloshed in the general’s mug, dark liquid splashing over the rim.

“Enough!” Harding’s interjection filled the room. His exhaustion was gone, replaced by an aura that reminded Riley why this man wore a star. “No one is losing their wings for saving lives. Not in my command. Not today.”

Riley’s shoulders finally relaxed. Klein had overplayed his hand. He’d gotten greedy in front of the general.

Harding held up a finger and then pointed out the window. Riley’s gaze followed. Pinatubo sat on the horizon, its peak lost in a yellow haze. Riley’s eyes moved past it without interest, back to the flight line.

“But I can’t ignore twenty tons of wreckage taking up half of Hangar 16. The investigation has to happen. Regs demand it.” The general looked from Riley to Manny and back again. “You’re both grounded, indefinitely, pending the outcome of a full Safety Investigation Board. But I’ll be bringing in an impartial team from PACAF for the effort.”

Grounded. The word was a cell door slamming shut. Riley felt it in his blood, in the hollow space behind his ribs where the sky used to live.

His hands hung at his sides. Empty. He looked down at them. Fifteen hours ago, they’d been fighting thirty knots of crosswind. Now they were useless.

The room pressed in, and the fluorescent buzz grew louder.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. There was nothing worse than this.

“What?” Klein said, standing. The scrape of the chair drew the general’s stare.

“Sit your ass down, Major,” Harding said. Once the safety officer was firmly back in his chair, the general turned back to Manny and Riley. “In the meantime, you will both report to the HQ. You’ll be on my personal staff. Administrative support until we sort this out.”

Riley opened his mouth, the words already forming.

“Dismissed,” Harding said.

It cut Riley off like a blade. There was nothing left to say.

He turned as Manny executed a textbook about-face. They marched together toward the exit, eyes forward until the oak door clicked shut behind them.

The waiting room had the same beige walls as before. Same vinyl chairs. The only difference? This was home now.

Bobbi sat behind her desk with a pencil in one hand and a phone cradled to her shoulder. Two young executive officers stood near a credenza stacked with message slips and manila Holey Joe envelopes filled with memorandums. All three of them looked up at once, then away again with clumsy mercy.

The silence was back. Riley stopped in the middle of the room and tugged at the collar of his service dress, fighting the urge to rip the tie loose. Grounded. Admin duty. A glorified secretary.

Manny halted beside him.

“Thanks for that, Manny,” Riley said. The executive officers were pretending not to listen. “You really put your neck on the block. Didn’t have to do that.”

Manny gave one short nod. “You got it, boss. You put it out there too.”

Riley clapped a hand on Manny’s shoulder. He squeezed once and let go. “You guys are practically my only family. I’ll get you back in the air. I promise.”

“Thanks, boss.”

They moved toward the exit. Riley was already calculating how many days of desk duty he could survive. A week? Two? He needed something to do. Anything other than paperwork.

A commotion came from the hallway, shattering the office’s library-like calm.

A flood of American civilians spilled into the waiting room. Leading the pack was an older man who looked like he’d had about five cups of coffee. His dirty white hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his thick glasses were smudged. He didn’t look crazy. This was desperation.

The other three had sweated through their clothes; their shirts were untucked and stained dark under the arms. One man was clutching a bundle of rolled maps to his chest like a life preserver. Another juggled oversized printouts spilling from his arms. No one picked them up.

A Filipino man in a barong tagalog walked with them. Government rep, by the look of him. His face was slick with perspiration.

Bobbi shot up from her desk. Her chair rolled backward and bumped against the filing cabinet. “Can I help you?”

One of the scientists pushed to the front of the group. His dusty field vest hung open, with none of the pockets zipped. “We need to see General Harding immediately.” The words came out in a rush. “We’re from WOVO, the World Volcano Observatory team.” He gestured at a printout. “The seismic activity in Mount Pinatubo—it’s changed.”

Riley went still.

He knew that look. He’d seen it on the faces of a hundred crew chiefs when a bird threw fault codes nobody could explain. It was the look of someone who had a problem and couldn’t make anyone else understand.

The Filipino government rep caught Riley’s eye. His hands were gripping a leather portfolio too tightly.

Manny bumped Riley’s arm with his elbow, his attention fixed on the official. “Hey, boss. See the emblem on his shoulder? That’s a member of the Presidential Security Group.”

Behind them, the oak door was closed. Harding was on the other side of it, already dealing with his next crisis. Riley stared at the panicked civilians. Ten minutes ago, he would have walked right past them, but the general had made this his problem now.

Riley heard the sad squeak of his own dress shoes as he approached. “Sir,” he said, stepping into the man’s path. “You can talk to me.”

The man spun around, blinking. His eyes scanned Riley’s uniform, landing on the gold oak leaves, then the untamed mustache. “And you are?”

“Major Riley.” He nodded toward Manny. “Master Sergeant Manuel Reyes. We’re on Brigadier General Harding’s staff.” Riley kept it neutral. Three minutes on the job, but the scientist didn’t need to know that. “Is there some kind of danger?”

The scientist stopped and stared at Riley. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and shoved a warm chart against Riley’s chest. “Dr. Arthur Sabin. Lead volcanic seismologist at WOVO.”

Riley stared at the printout. Jagged lines crawled across the graph paper like the readings from a heart monitor. Numbers and timestamps filled the margins. He looked for something he understood—max torque, fuel flow. Nothing.

Sabin watched him, tapping the sheet with a nicotine-stained finger. “You see the harmonic tremors? The deep-period events? Gas pressure is spiking across the whole system. This is very, very dangerous. And exciting.”

“I fly helicopters, Doc,” Riley said. “I don’t know how to read squiggles.”

“I’ve been warning the government for months. Did anyone listen?”

“How bad are we talking?” Riley asked.

Sabin pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Based on the seismic signature and deformation data?” He took a breath. “We’re looking at a VEI-6 event, Major. Possibly higher. Ten cubic kilometers of expulsion. You understand how crazy that is? Ten cubic kilometers.” He laughed. It was a short, wild sound.

Riley exchanged a glance with Manny. “No, I don’t.”

The scientist put his glasses back on. “To the layman, this will make Mount St. Helens look like a science fair project.” His expression went flat. “Major Riley, you need to evacuate this base, now.”

chapter 3

13 June

Garlic. Cane vinegar. Pork fat crackling in a cast-iron skillet.

The screen door slapped shut behind Manny, and for a moment he just stood there, letting the smell wash away the last four days. Sabin’s briefings were never-ending.

He just needed an hour of normal.

His mother’s kitchen was small. Eight feet by ten, maybe. But tonight it held a dozen people and enough food to feed an army. Aunts he hadn’t seen in weeks crowded the counter space. Cousins chopped and peeled. A wok spat and hissed with a fresh batch of lumpia. Steam rose from three pots on the stove, fogging the air.

Maria Reyes stood at the center of it all, impossible to ignore, five foot nothing in her house slippers and directing traffic with a wooden spoon. Her orders came in rapid-fire Kapampangan. “More vinegar in that pot. No, not that spoon. The other one.”

Manny stood in the doorway, the woodland camouflage of his BDUs feeling suddenly stiff and conspicuous against the pastel-yellow walls. He took a breath. The knot of tension between his shoulder blades began to loosen.

His sister, Elena, sat at the small table by the window, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Seven months along and still trying to help. She stretched for a bowl of green beans, but her husband eased it out of reach. She caught Manny’s eye and stuck out her tongue.

He grinned.

He slid up to the counter, where a platter of lechon kawali sat gleaming. Pork belly in perfect cubes, skin blistered gold.

His hand darted out.

The wooden spoon struck his knuckles.

“Aray! Ma!” Manny yanked his hand back.

Maria didn’t even look up. “Mainit yan, Manuel. You wait.” She switched seamlessly to English. “Wash your hands first.”

“I washed them, Ma.”

“Not enough.” She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, the ferocity softening. Reaching into the humming refrigerator, she pulled out two brown bottles. San Miguel Pale Pilsen. She shoved them into his chest. “Go join your Tatay out back with those damn kuliglig.”

“They’re called cicadas,” Manny said, turning to leave.

Maria raised a finger. “You forget something?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Good boy.” She shooed him away. “Don’t disturb my system.”

Manny retreated to the doorway. He leaned against it and watched the chaos. The aunts moved around each other like they’d been born in this kitchen. Elena laughed at something her husband whispered. His cousin dropped a spoon, and three people bent to pick it up at once.

Such beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

A small television sat atop the refrigerator in the corner, volume low. A news anchor pointed at a red circle on the map.

His mother glanced at the screen, just for a second. Then back to her army, gripping the spoon a little too tightly. They were cooking like enough adobo could keep the mountain at bay.

Manny pushed the door open. He needed to find his father.

Mateo Reyes was sitting in the old rattan chair, the one with the frayed armrests that had been there for twenty years. A cigarette glowed between his fingers. The ember flared bright, then faded.

Manny’s father wore a white sando undershirt that hung loose on his frame and trousers that had seen better decades. He just kept staring west, never turning as Manny crossed the cracked concrete and held out a bottle.

Mateo took it without a word. The glass was already sweating, and Manny watched the condensation drip onto his father’s callused palm. Working hands. Mechanic’s hands.

Manny leaned against the house and cracked his own bottle. The beer was cold and just what he needed.

He used to love this view. The backyard sloped down toward a drainage ditch choked with banana trees, and beyond that, the land rose in gentle folds toward the Zambales Mountains.

Toward Pinatubo.

The mountain was invisible now, swallowed by low clouds and the gathering darkness. But Manny could feel it out there. A low pressure in the air, a frequency just below hearing. Something vast and indifferent at the edge of perception. The cicadas seemed to feel it too.

Inside, his mother snapped an order, and somebody laughed.

“The experts on base say it’s going to be big, Tatay.” Manny kept his voice low. “You need to take Mom and Elena and go south. Manila isn’t far enough. Go to Batangas. Tonight, right after dinner.”

Mateo nodded slowly. The cigarette rose to his lips. Fell away. He didn’t look at his son. His gaze stayed fixed on the western sky, on the invisible mountain.

“You should come with us, Manuel.”

“I can’t.” Manny stared at the label on his beer. “I want to, but they’re evacuating the aircraft any minute. Maybe the whole damn base. It’ll be a nightmare.” He took a swig. “They’re counting on me, Tatay. I’ve gotta stay and do my job.”

Mateo scoffed. He flicked his cigarette butt into the dark yard, watching the ember die in the wet grass. “You have done enough for those Americans.” His English was precise, deliberate. “You are a Filipino, not a Kano. It’s time to stop playing soldier and come home.”

Manny’s grip tightened on the bottle. The condensation made his fingers slip. “I’m a master sergeant, Tay. What I do is important, and I’m not playing.” He could hear the edge in his own words. “I fly aircraft that save lives.”

“So you’re a pilot now?”

Manny bit his lip. “No.” His father knew this. “But they are my family.”

Mateo’s eyes were hard in the dim light spilling from the kitchen window. Deep lines grooved his face. “Do you have a wife? A son?” He gestured toward the house with his cigarette. “Look at Elena. She will have a baby soon. That’s a real life, Manuel.”

Manny shrugged, but it felt forced. The beer tasted sour now.

His father took a long drag, the flare illuminating the hard set of his jaw. He let smoke curl from his nostrils, like a dragon settling its temper. “Those people, they don’t see you as one of them. They’re not your family.”

Mateo leaned forward, making the chair groan. “When that mountain blows and things get nasty”—he stabbed the cigarette toward the base—“who’s gonna risk their neck for you? One of those white pilots?” He shook his head.

Manny said nothing. He picked up his beer and stared into the night.

The roar came first, followed by a heavy, rhythmic bass that vibrated the tin roof over the shed. Manny knew that car. Four-cylinder, aftermarket exhaust. Bass booming just to announce its presence.

The candy-apple-red Mitsubishi Lancer screeched to a halt in front of the house, lowered so far the frame nearly scraped against the curb. The engine revved once—a jagged snarl—before cutting out.

“Of course,” Manny said.

Rico stepped out slowly, one hand on the roof, letting the neighborhood see. A gold crucifix showed through his partially unbuttoned shirt. The cologne hit before he reached the porch, sweet and chemical, drowning the smell of pork fat.

“Primo! The hero is here to save us all!” Rico shouted, spreading his arms wide. He bounded up the steps and wrapped Manny in a bear hug.

Manny returned the hug with one hand, patting his cousin’s back once before pulling away.

From inside, somebody called Rico’s name with the strained cheer people used for certain relatives.

“Rico.” Manny nodded. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Family dinner, pare. You think I’d miss Tita Maria’s lechon?” Rico winked, then snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot.” He turned and jogged back to the Lancer. Popping the trunk, he hauled out a cardboard box, carrying it up the steps like a trophy. “For the family. Brand new Sony. Unbeatable quality,” he announced, patting the top of the box. “So you can watch the news about Pinatubo in style.”

The box had no price tag. The corners were slightly crumpled, as if it had been shoved into a corner.

Mateo stared at Rico. The older man’s face didn’t change. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and stood up. “I need another beer,” he said as he walked past the gift without touching it.

The smile slid off Rico’s face like oil. “The old man is too proud.” He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. “Like poverty is a virtue. You’d think he’d be grateful.”

“Why are you here, Rico?” Manny asked.

Rico glanced toward the kitchen. For a second, his face lost its hustle. “Thought maybe I could help get everyone out. Before it gets bad.”

Manny wanted to believe him. But that was Rico’s gift.

Finally, the grin slid back into place. “Speaking of getting out, I hear the base is shutting down.”

“We’re evacuating nonessentials,” Manny corrected. “Just a few people. It’s standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure. Whatever you call it, it’s a gold mine.” Rico leaned closer. “Maybe you take a few days off, work with me. The pawnshop is booming. People selling their whole lives for bus fare, and I need someone who knows things.” He tapped his temple. “Military things. Schedules. Security. What’s leaving and when.” He winked.

Manny’s stomach turned. He could see the desperate families pawning their wedding rings, Rico holding the bag.

Manny had once been dumb enough to buy into his cousin’s bullshit. At some point, street-corner scams and boosting cars stopped being just kids having fun. He’d found the wrong side of a jail cell before he found a recruiter’s office.

“I joined the military to get away from that.”

The playfulness vanished from Rico’s eyes. “Just ’cause you wear that uniform don’t make you better than me.” His lip curled. “You’re just a servant, Kuya. Open your eyes. The empire is leaving.” He jabbed a finger against Manny’s chest, right above the name tape. “If we worked together, no one could stop us.”

Rico read Manny’s face. He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Think about it, primo. Seriously. You know where to find me.”

The ground cut him off. Manny’s knees flexed before his brain registered the movement. A low rumble rose from somewhere deep beneath the concrete. Mateo’s discarded San Miguel bottles danced, clinking against each other. The hanging ferns banged into the chipped wall.

It was a long, rolling earthquake. Manny knew vibrations better than anyone, but this one twisted abnormally under his boots. This tremor had the wrong soul.

Inside the house, the laughter stopped. A ceramic bowl shattered on the tile floor. Then, silence. Even the cicadas paused, as if they knew.

Rico’s bravado cracked as he stumbled back. He grasped the wall to steady himself. His eyes darted toward the trees, toward the shadows where Pinatubo hid.

Flicking his cigarette into the grass, Rico flashed his brightest smile. He was all teeth and confidence, backing down the steps. “When the shit hits the fan,” he said, pointing a finger at Manny, “only family saves family. Remember that, primo.” Rico didn’t wait for a response as he bounded down the steps two at a time.

The Lancer’s engine fired to life. Tires screeched against asphalt as he tore away into the night, taillights trailing red around the corner.

Manny stood alone on the porch as another tremor rolled through, gentler this time. An afterthought. A final warning.

The screen door creaked open behind him.

His mother emerged first, clutching her wooden rosary tight. Her lips moved in silent prayer, the words flowing from decades of repetition. Behind her came Mateo, his face bare. Family crowded the doorway. Elena’s husband had his arm around her shoulders.

“I have to go,” Manny said. “I have to get back to the command post.”

He looked at his father. He expected an argument, another lecture about family or the arrogance of the Americans. But Mateo just looked west.

“Go,” he said. “Do your job.”

“You need to leave too,” Manny told him. “Tonight. Not after dinner. Not after coffee. Now. Head south and don’t stop. Take only what you can carry.”

Mateo gave one slow nod. “We’ll go,” he said. No argument. The mountain had settled that piece of family business better than Manny ever could.

The screen door banged open again. His aunts spilled out, a flurry of motion and anxiety. They shoved warm, foil-wrapped bundles into his hands and pockets. Lumpia. Adobo. Rice wrapped in banana leaves. Baon for the road. Even at the end of the world, a Filipino couldn’t let anyone leave the house hungry.

“For the road,” Auntie Lorna said.

“Eat,” another said. “You look thin.”

“Not now,” Maria snapped.

Manny juggled the hot foil, feeling the absurdity of it. He turned toward his beat-up Toyota, pressing the bundle of food against his chest.

A hand caught his arm.

His mother’s grip was surprisingly strong, her fingers digging into the fabric of his BDU blouse. She stared past the jungle into the black void. “That mountain’s not sleeping. It’s dreaming.”

Manny pulled her close. The rosary beads pressed against him as she hugged him. He held her until she stopped gripping quite so hard.

“I know, Nay. Leave before it opens its eye.”