Aurora(89)

Thom nodded toward Scott and Celeste, who were goofing around while they worked, grabbing each other, laughing.

“They still say they’re gonna get married?”

“Yep.”

“How’s that going to work?” he asked.

“Well, emancipation turned out to be too much paperwork,” Aubrey said, “but Celeste is sixteen, so she only needs her mom’s permission, which she already got. And when Scott has his birthday next month, I’ll help him track down his mother and try to get her to say yes too. She can’t really object. She hasn’t seen him in years.”

“You’re going to let them get married?”

“What possible difference could it make, after everything they’ve been through?”

“I guess.”

“It’s not the sort of mistake that’ll cripple them forever. They start talking about having a kid, that I’ll stop.”

Thom nodded. “How’s he doing with—you know, the rest?”

“OK, I guess. Pretty quiet.”

“Therapy?”

“Doesn’t want to go. I haven’t pushed it yet.”

Thom looked out at the street again. Lukas and Anya were still tormenting each other, moving on from dirt clods to pushing and shoving, and their voices had gone up in pitch, the early, rising tones of an argument. Thom tensed, watching them, but when Anya fell, as she invariably did—she was the clumsiest kid he’d ever seen—Lukas’s tone shifted from hectoring to gentle, and he reached out to help his sister to her feet. To Thom’s surprise, the volatile little girl accepted it.

Thom turned back to Aubrey. Her cheeks were pink in the chill autumn air. He thought she looked twenty years younger. He stared. She noticed. She put a hand on his back and felt his shoulders twitch as he began to cry. She put an arm around him and pulled him close.

He spoke, his voice weaker than she’d ever heard it. “I never should have let you do it.”

“I like my life, Thom. It didn’t ruin me.”

“No. But I think it ruined me.”

He put his head on her shoulder, and they watched the children play in the fading light.

“We’re OK, Tommy. We’re OK now.”



Later, when Scott came back into the house, he found a two-foot cardboard box sitting on the dining room table. He let out a little gasp of surprise, seeing his name written in handwriting he’d never expected to see again.

He picked up the box—much heavier than it looked—took it to his bedroom, and unwrapped its elaborate packaging. Packing peanuts, bubble wrap, and wadded-up year-old newspaper had done their job for the past several months. Inside was cradled Norman’s beautiful, meticulously preserved 1957 Zenith Trans-Oceanic shortwave radio, complete with a pristine copy of its original owner’s manual. THE ROYALTY OF RADIOS, its cover boasted.

There was a note clipped to the manual, typewritten on an index card:

Kiddo,

Talk to people. I promise you there is absolutely nothing more worth doing.

Yours,





Norman





P.S. Watch the skies.





Acknowledgments





The notion of extraordinary global events that deprive us of power—in ways both literal and figurative—is something I’ve explored in the past. But it was fascinating to shift my focus from the global to the hyperlocal, and the ways in which tiny communities might come together or split apart during hardship.

For any insights or inspirations I might have had along those lines, I want to thank the residents of the Street Where I Live, in Amagansett, New York. Lucy and Joe Kazickas, Tracy and Matt McQuade, and all your delightful kids, both full-grown and teeny-tiny, you were the best pandemic neighbors we could have possibly hoped for during those frightening, isolating months of 2020 and 2021. When I think about a safe place to shelter in a storm, I think of our street.

The science in the book regarding the sun and power grid is, for the most part, accurate. I’m grateful to Professor Lucie Green of the Mullard Space Science Laboratory at University College of London, and Dr. Sara Seager of MIT, who were enormously helpful in that regard. Anything I got right was with their help; anything that’s wrong is entirely my fault.

Likewise, everything good I know about sibling relationships I learned from my brothers, Steve and Jeff, and my sister, Cathy. Everything bad I made up out of whole cloth. Sibs—I love you.

Thank you also to my invaluable early readers—Howard Franklin, the tirelessly supportive Gavin Polone (“Why don’t you write fifty pages and see how you feel then?”), Susan Lehman, Brian DePalma, Andrew Waller, the enigmatic John Kamps, and, of course, my immortal beloved, Melissa Thomas, without whom our whole traveling circus would fall apart.

In matters of business, I am forever grateful to my brilliant agents, Mollie Glick, Brian Kend, and Richard Lovett of CAA, and the ever-savvy and levelheaded problem solver David Fox, the best attorney a boy could ask for. The writer Will Reichel, who moonlights as my assistant, is unflappable and constant. If we were a football team, Will would be the kicker who makes the fifty-six-yard field goal, even after they ice him. My editor, Noah Eaker of HarperCollins, was consistently insightful and encouraging, and, Noah, I thank you for shepherding movie boy through the world of novel writing. Also, continuing thanks to Zachary Wagman, without whom I likely wouldn’t be typing these words at all.