July 8: Israel strikes more than 200 sites in Gaza; Hamas fires 150 rockets into Israel
Molly wakes to the sound of a siren careening into her bedroom. Morning light dripping into her room, sheets tangled around her legs, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip. The siren sounds long and loud, unbearably loud, a grating whine spinning out into the open air. Molly clamps a pillow over her ears; bangs on the wall she shares with her brother, Dan. It is early in the morning and the darkness has not yet completely left the sky. The darkness persists, stubbornly, in black and blue streaks along the edge of the horizon. The siren moans, wild and insistent, breaking into existence. It is a sound that demands panic, a sound that spurs movement, rush, anxiety. Hands clamped over ears, feet frantic, eyes glancing toward the sky, the still-dark sky.
The sound presses, unrelenting, into the empty space that surrounds bodies, surrounds objects, pulsing out in waves, in horrible tremors, making it impossible to think, to think, to hear anything but the siren’s cry. The walls shake with it, the sound knows no barriers, it moves through floorboards and glass windowpanes, it summons those inside houses to come down, down, into the belly of the earth, under the ground where they might be safe from the sky, from the sky which might rain down fire.
Molly stumbles out of bed, sleep still in her eyes, shorts and tank top askew, shoulder-length brown hair disheveled. She runs...
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