James Dirkhand wanted only one thing on that cloudy Sunday morning, a cheese and bacon sandwich from his favored vender at the farmer’s market. A few people, poorly dressed in khaki shorts and the type of patriotic t-shirts bought on sale at Wal-Mart or full price at a Nascar race milled among the stalls with little intent to purchase. They were at best a decade away from losing the fight to diabetes. Ahead a flash of color crossed his path and drew his attention. A young girl in a brightly striped sundress escaped her parents and now made play of dashing in an out of the stalls. He didn’t know if she survived.
The shockwave took him first. Time didn’t slow. It stopped. He vaguely remembered light, but he couldn’t remember any sound of the event. The lights disappeared and then they reappeared. Wood, vegetables, bits of things he didn’t know crushed under every step. Even though people appeared to move, to open and clothes their mouths, to display anguish, he heard nothing. Each step brought him no closer to anything. A chair lay in the middle of the aisle. He uprighted it and sat.