He steps forward, his elbow catching a tiny piece of wreckage that falls to the floor. He grabs Amber’s hand and pulls her behind him, crossing the length of the canopy in seconds. He can hear Shante’s voice carrying over the wind, a tiny hint of desperation barely audible in the night air.
“Hey, hey! Are you even listening to me? I want to speak with my father immediately!”
Harold’s eyes dance over the room and land upon a bottom shelf, void of wreckage, with just enough room. He drops to the floor and scrambles onto it, pulling Amber on top of him.
Her back presses against the shelf above her, her hair covers his ears and her eyes burrow into his. Were she not so frightened Harold might find it erotic.
Two men enter the canopy, their flashlights dancing over the far corners. A cursory search at best. “Stop wasting my time with your damn paranoia. Whatever was in the ship died in the crash.”
“Then why didn’t we find a body?”
“Cuz it vaporized man.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m not lettin my kids near those woods.”