text: Alyssa dreamed of feverish lights and dancing swarms. Her feet covered in sand, her heart beating to a song that rang familiar and yet unknown. The crowd around her, lost in blissful euphoria, blended and fused, turning into an amorphous shape. They could not know what was about to happen, she thought as her heart beat and faster. How the fluorescent lights by the beach would be overshadowed by a skyward gleam, blinding and encompassing all. How they would all be lost in that light. She woke up to the sound of her vibrating phone. Had she not put it in silent mode? Her boyfriend lay asleep, his snoring unaffected. *No, I am not going to check it*. A minute passed and the phone vibrated again. And again. She sighted and clumsily searched the bedside table. A few messages from the same number stating: “*BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL”* It gleamed before her eyes, like a lighthouse on the evening shore. After a few seconds, the phone’s screen turned black and she had to press the home button to check it again, make sure it was real. Alyssa scratched her eyelids, partly convinced it was a prank being played by one of her boyfriend’s friends. Her phone suddenly rang, but she did not pick it up. Then another message, but now from a friend: “Omg Ali they said it will come down in 25 minutes. PICK UP THE PHONE” Alyssa suddenly realized she had not breathed since checking the cellphone, that her lungs would not constrict nor expand; only stood still. Thirstily, she gulped for air. It took a few moments for her to overcome the feeling of asphyxiation. It couldn’t be true. She thought about checking the news, calling the police, anything to disprove those messages. Yet something deep inside her convinced her otherwise; a muffled voice crawled from her belly up towards her throat and escaped her lips ringing: “It is real” She thought of her mom who was thousands of kilometers away in Pará. They’d have a call every two or three days but didn’t last night. She imagined her mom alone watching the evening news, drawing internal anecdotes about how things never improved in Brazil. Repeating old sayings to herself as though they were mantras. She remembered her at catechism wearing a humble beige dress whilst standing at the church’s entrance facing a small march of children in white garments and dark shoes. Her face wet with tears but bearing a warm smile. Alyssa looked at her phone again - 21 minutes remained. &#x200B; . . . &#x200B; While Alyssa still slept, her neighbor laid awake. They would exchange pleasantries as they bumped into each other on morning jogs, but Alyssa did not know the man. His name was Silvério - he was older, quieter and had a certain sad demeanor about him. Right then, a few houses down from hers, he grunted at fixed intervals, his torso moving up and down. His cheeks red, his back damp with sweat. He was about to do the fiftieth crunch of the set, which would then be followed by twenty-five push-ups and thirty squats. The muscle pain and rigidity of his body were clear reminders of his age. Nevertheless, it wasn’t to keep fit that Silvério exercised but rather because he felt like drinking. Over the past three years or so, he discovered that exercise kept old demons at bay. It was weird, but a mix of sweat and endorphins worked better for him than any other measure he had tried before. His was a specifically difficult case because he was - and deep down prided himself being - a highly functional alcoholic. He kept his job as a health science consultant for several years while ingesting a ridiculous amount of alcohol on a weekly basis. It didn’t cost him his career but it did cost his two marriages and a son. The awareness of his problem only came to him four years back, when his ex-wife told him that his youngest son did not want to see him anymore. He had already alienated an older son, and his own father had been a stranger to him at best. The glimpse of yet another nauseating cycle about to repeat rushed through his eyes. It was then that he decided to, for the first time since early adulthood, get his shit together. He joined A.A and moved to Kaunakakai to be closer to his son. Ever since then he had had not relapsed and overall managed to almost feel proud of himself. Sure, it was not great to deal with his ex-wife’s coach surf partner but he could be in his son’s life. When he considered it, there had been mostly good days in his alcohol free life. Only rarely did he feel tempted to drink again. Today had been one of *those* days. Days when his progress seemed futile and his senses would deceive him. When he smelled gin though there was none in the house; when he drank coffee and tasted a hint of whiskey. When he remembered that the closest bar was only two point eight kilometers from his house; that he could drive there in no time or even get a jog out of it. His lips would feel dry and he would see a bartender smirk as he placed the glass on the counter. Trying to lose sight of that smirk, he finished the last set and rubbed a small white towel against his sweaty face. In his kitchen a few moments later, he filled a water bottle and drained it with delight. His Adam-apple drew an arch with each gulp and, seconds before the bottle was empty, he heard his phone ring back in the living room. “Gotta be Jim again” he grumbled to himself. But it wasn’t. His mobile screen showed the same message that Alyssa would read a few seconds afterward: “*BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL”* Silvério checked the number - it was a government one. Search results on his mobile led to forums filled with anguished posts debating the message’s veracity. Was it real? What could be done? When the U.S president openly antagonized a dictator in hold of atomic weapons on a platform reaching 330 million, what else could be expected? A new Pearl Harbor. What a legacy to leave behind. There could have just been some glitch or cyber terrorism, Silvério pondered. His heart beat fast, his white tank top still wet in cold sweat. But what if it wasn’t? What if his timer was really set and he had but twenty minutes left? To his eternal shame, upon facing that possibility, it was not towards his son that his thoughts went but to his Belgium neighbor’s cabinet. Silvério hurried outside, leaving the lights on and the front door opened. He took anxious steps, moved by the forgotten frenzy and immutable smell of alcohol that wasn’t there. The grass under his feet felt soft and humid, the air warm and calm. He paused before his neighbor’s backdoor. *I am better than this. I should be.* He sighted, crouched and lifted the mat which read “Welkom” in bold. Underneath it shone the house key against the moon light. *Bingo*. The door opened silently, a damp stain left on its handle. It was not necessary to turn any lights on - he knew he was in the kitchen and that the silhouette of the door ahead led to the living room. From there, taking the right he could go to the room where the cabinet stood. While having coffee with his neighbor, he often lost his gaze at that very room, pretending he did not know what it hid. The Flemish man would laugh and resume his tales, but, to his merit, never had any alcoholic beverages at display when visited by Silvério. The timer on his mobile phone showed he still had 18 minutes. How many bottles could he down in that time? *One thousand and eighty seconds don’t seem like that long*. His hands trembling with excitement, Silvério grabbed the first bottle he found. It was rum and he quickly drank over half of it. Dark liquid ran down his lips, his neck and stained his tank top. The first time he ever drank rum was at a house party when his fifteen-year old self tried to impress a girl. It tasted pungent then just like it did now. That taste, accompanied by the dreamy buzz and the warmth of her body had been ingrained in his memory. Bitterness, excitement, youth. A better version of himself. He paused for a moment, coughed a few times and finished the bottle. The second bottle he chose was a vodka one. It tasted bitter and heavier than remembered. For a single moment he was caught by a future image of himself lying unconscious amidst empty bottles, just before being disintegrated by an explosion. He stared at the two-thirds left of the vodka bottle, thinking of his youngest son as he took another sip. &#x200B; . . . &#x200B; The deep beat reverberated across the beach. From afar, kilometers of emptiness from left and right converged into a crowd dancing bathed in a mix of moon and neon light. Every so often a subtle breeze blew, drawing waves at the near sea and lifting sand particles that stuck against wet shirts and damp bodies. Tim danced with a girl he had locked eyes with a few moments before. Her body swayed from side to side. Her mouth mumbled the song’s lyrics in an almost smirk. With more clumsiness than charm, Tim tried to follow her dance tempo whilst sipping his beer. He placed the plastic cup on the ground and took a single step towards her. Her smirk grew larger. From the small bag that hung on her shoulder, she took what appeared to be a pill and gently placed it in her mouth. To his surprise, she came closer. Then a little closer - just enough for a kiss. Her lips were sweet and soft. As they kissed, she delicately placed her hands on the back of his neck and played with his hair. He moved his mouth from hers to her neck and back while trying to control his own hands. Eventually, she stopped, took another pill from her bag but this time placed in his mouth. It was then that a wider range of feelings emerged for Tim - a combination of anxiety, arousal and release. They resumed kissing for a while, lost in an ecstasy of sensations and the never stopping beat that trembled their chests. Before he took a break to ask her name, a stranger bumped against them, almost making the girl fall. It was then that Tim noticed that something had gone wrong - those who had been dancing around them were now staggered checking their phones. A couple appeared to cry while others started to push against the crowd in a desperate frenzy. When the music went momentarily lower, Tim could hear a scream: “Die, we are gonna die!” Fear spread across the rave like wildfire. It engulfed and surrounded much of the crowd, even those who were not fit to comprehend it. As many began to run in incidental directions, some were trampled and screams ensued. A handful drunken fights emerged and a small group headed towards the water while taking their cloths off. A couple held closer together, exchanging inaudible words. Once the mass had divided into scattered and less violent groups, a myriad of cigarettes were lit and smoke flew up to the night sky. There were some people who even resumed dancing as though the chaos had been nothing but a transitory nightmare. Tim hugged the girl whilst the violence broke down and took her away from the larger groups. As the pandemonium subsided they went back to kissing and feeling each other’s body. Neither bothered to check their phones. The ever so loud beat never stopped. &#x200B; . . . &#x200B; Alyssa gave herself three minutes to cry. She was cold enough to time it. Once she was done, she dried her face and took a deep breath. Her boyfriend was still snoring as she walked to the kitchen. Once there, she placed the coffee pot on the sink, added water, four and a half teaspoons of Kenyan coffee and took a package of sugar from the cupboard. Then, she placed it on the stove and waited for the water to heat. She thought about leaving her mother a voice message but could not define what she wanted to say. When the familiar smell began to pervade the house, her mind went blank. As she stood there unaware of which thought might come next, she felt a slight touch on her shoulder. “Hon, it is almost three in the morning” her boyfriend said in a voice both tired and confused. She turned to him, smiled and their lips touched for a second. She then put the coffee in two cups that had been drying. Followed by his perplexed gaze, she added one tea spoon of sugar to each and mixed it. She kissed him again but now for slightly longer. “You are crazy” he declared after a yawn. Alyssa laughed a sad laugh, as far as she knew her very last, and took a slow sip.