Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay It was six in the morning and already I could hear voices outside. Not wanting to move the curtains, I peered through the slit in the center. There they were, with their vans and cameras, notepads and microphones, swarming the sidewalk like ants that have found the remnants of a chip bag. Sliding back into the darkness of the living room, I dialed a number that I knew by heart. It rang through to the voicemail and I hung up. Before I could dial again, my phone lit up. “Hello?” “It’s May 19 again, isn’t it?” He had a drawl that lulled you into thinking of iced tea and buttered corn. “Meriweather, I don’t know why, but they’re here at my house,” my pulse jumped in my neck, pulsing against the hand that held the phone. “Don’t you watch the news? It’s the thirtieth anniversary of the LEAP disaster.” There was the jingle of a belt buckle. “Where are you?” “Well, I was in bed. Now I’m putting my chaps and spurs on.” I didn’t find that funny. “I’m