The Longest Block

His daughter can't breathe. During a city-wide curfew, he has to risk everything to get her medicine.

The plastic inhaler gave a final, empty hiss. A dry puff of nothing. James shook it again, violently this time, as if he could rattle one more dose out of it by sheer force. Nothing. The sound from the bedroom wasn't crying anymore. It was a thin, high whistle, the sound of a closing pipe. Ellen’s sound.

He threw the useless piece of plastic onto the counter, where it skittered and fell to the floor. Mandy was standing in the doorway, her face pale in the dim light of the kitchen. Her hands were twisting the hem of her shirt.

"The line is still busy," she whispered. "911. Just a recording."

He didn't need to ask. He'd been trying for twenty minutes. The recording was a calm, automated female voice telling them all operators were busy and to remain on the line. A lie. No one was coming.

"I'm going," James said. He was already pulling his darkest hoodie over his head, grabbing the worn-out sneakers he left by the door.

"No." Mandy's voice was sharp, a crack in the suffocating quiet. "James, you can't. You hear them? They've been circling all night."

He heard them. The low, guttural rumble of the armored trucks. It was a constant presence now, the soundtrack to their cage. "She can't breathe, Mandy. What am I supposed to do? Let her...?"

He couldn't finish the sentence. The whistling from the other room hitched. A wet, desperate cough followed.

"We'll boil water. The steam..."

"We tried that. It's not working," he said, his voice flat. He jammed his wallet and the crumpled prescription slip into his pocket. "The 24-hour place on Grove. It’s six blocks."

"Six blocks is a death sentence!" she hissed, grabbing his arm. Her fingers dug into his bicep. "They see you, they don't ask questions. They just take you. And we'll never see you again. What happens to us then?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. He knew what she meant. He wasn’t a citizen. He was a number on a list they were always hunting for. A ghost who was supposed to stay invisible. But the sound from the bedroom was real. Ellen was real.

He gently pulled her hand off his arm. "What happens if I don't go?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He kissed her forehead, a quick, desperate press of his lips against her cold skin, and slipped out the door before she could say another word.

The hallway was black. He didn't dare use the light. He felt his way along the wall, his shoulder brushing against the peeling paint. The fire escape was their only way in and out now, since management had chained the lobby doors after the first night of curfew. The metal of the ladder was shockingly cold under his hands, slick with condensation. He moved slowly, deliberately, placing his feet with the care of a bomb disposal expert. Every scrape of his sole on the grated steps sounded like a gunshot in the unnatural silence.

The city was dead. That was the only word for it. Streetlights were out, storefronts were dark, and the endless river of traffic was gone. The only light came from a sliver of moon and the cold, sweeping searchlights of the federal patrols. The silence was worse than the noise had ever been. It was a listening silence, expectant. It made him feel like the only moving thing in a world of predators.

He dropped the last few feet into the alley, landing with a soft thud that still made him flinch. He pressed himself against the brick wall, the rough texture digging into his back, and held his breath. He counted to sixty. Nothing. Just the distant rumble. He forced himself to move.

Keep to the shadows. Stay off the main avenues. He knew the route. He'd walked it a thousand times, but now it was a foreign landscape. A familiar corner was a blind spot, a row of hedges a potential ambush. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm against the slow, steady beat of the patrol trucks. Every loose piece of gravel under his feet, every rustle of a wind-blown plastic bag, sent a spike of adrenaline through him. He felt naked, exposed. A nerve ending twitching in the open.

He was halfway there, crossing the wide, empty space of a school playground, when he heard it. The grinding of gears, closer than before. Too close.

He sprinted, his lungs burning, and dove behind a large green dumpster at the edge of the playground. The stench of rotting garbage filled his nostrils, hot and sweet. He pressed his face against the cold, grimy metal, squeezing himself into the small space between the dumpster and a chain-link fence. He made himself as small as possible, tucking his head down, trying to regulate his breathing.

The rumble grew into a roar. The ground vibrated. A brilliant, blinding white light flooded the alley, erasing the shadows. It swept over the top of the dumpster, the beam so close he could feel the heat of it, inches above his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. *Don't see me. Please, God, don't see me.* He could hear the crackle of a radio, distorted voices speaking in a clipped, official language he couldn't understand. The light lingered, a malevolent eye, then swept on.

The truck idled for a moment, a lifetime. He could picture it, the black armored plating, the tinted windows, the men inside with their guns and their lists. Then, with another groan of gears, it moved on, the rumble fading slowly back into the city's low hum.

James stayed there for a full five minutes, his body shaking uncontrollably. His cheek was stuck to the damp metal of the dumpster. He peeled himself away and forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like water. *Get up. Move. For Ellen.* The thought was a lifeline.

The pharmacy was an oasis of light in the desert of the street. A single, small window glowed, protected by a thick sheet of plexiglass and iron bars. He stumbled to the service drawer, his hands trembling as he pushed the prescription slip and his card through the slot.

A tired-looking woman with graying hair barely glanced at him through the glass. Her movements were slow, methodical. She took the slip, disappeared for a moment, and came back with a small paper bag and the inhaler. The transaction was silent. She pushed the bag into the drawer. He snatched it, not even waiting for the receipt. He had it. A surge of relief so powerful it almost made him dizzy.

He turned to run, to retrace his steps, but froze. A block away, right at the corner he needed to turn to get back to his own building, one of the patrol trucks had stopped. Its red and blue lights flashed silently, painting the brick buildings in strobing, bloody colors. Two federal agents were pulling a man out of a doorway, his arms wrenched behind his back. The man wasn't struggling. He just looked tired.

James’s blood ran cold. They were on his street. They were right there. He couldn't go back that way. His mind raced, scrambling for an alternative. The network of back alleys. It was longer, more dangerous, a maze of dead ends and blind corners, but it was the only way. He ducked back into the darkness, the paper bag clutched in his hand.

This alley was narrower, darker. The buildings on either side were taller, blocking out the moonlight. The air was stagnant, thick with the smell of damp concrete and decay. He moved faster now, driven by a new urgency. The relief of getting the medicine was gone, replaced by the sharp-edged fear of the final stretch. He could almost feel Ellen’s strained breathing, Mandy’s terrified waiting.

He took a sharp right, then a left, trying to navigate the familiar map in his head, now distorted by darkness and fear. The alley floor was littered with debris that shifted under his feet. He was so close. He could see the back of his own apartment building rising up ahead.

Then he saw the wall. A solid brick wall, ten feet high, topped with razor wire. A dead end. He'd taken a wrong turn.

A wave of nausea washed over him. He spun around, his heart sinking. He had to backtrack, back past the open street he'd just crossed.

That's when he heard it. Footsteps. Unmistakably. Not the heavy, booted tread of an agent. These were quicker, lighter, but they were coming toward him. Fast.

Panic seized him. There was nowhere to go. No dumpsters, no doorways. Just slick, windowless brick walls on either side and the dead end in front of him. He was trapped. He flattened himself against the cold brick, the small paper bag feeling impossibly fragile in his hand. The footsteps grew louder, echoing in the narrow space. A shape detached itself from the deeper darkness at the mouth of the alley. It was a silhouette, moving with a purpose that terrified him.

James held his breath, his knuckles white around the bag. The shape resolved into a man, and James saw the glint of something metal in his hand.