Tanks rolled through the city streets. The haunted eyes of soldiers searched the landscape for any disturbance, big or small. Police officers, on foot, stopped teens brandishing weapons. It didn’t matter their ethnicity. They were all questioned.
Martial law did nothing to staunch the public disturbances. Fear became a regular companion for my neighbors. Mr. Miller was vivid, scary proof. I watched him leave the house. Seeing him outside was rare since he lost his job—Mr. Miller claimed Hybrids replaced everyone in his office. The car edged out of the driveway. He had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other gripped a pistol.
“It’s not polite to stare,” Becky reminded me from the hallway. I dropped the living room curtain and followed her back to the kitchen where the radio blared.
“In other news today,” the reporter started, “another Detroit neighborhood is on fire. Eyewitnesses claim that firefighters continued to drive down Oakman Boulevard, not bothering to turn toward the burning houses.”
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