“Negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full.”

I was eating dinner tonight in my apartment. Outside the sky was overcast; it looked as if it would thunderstorm at any minute. As I finished my tofu and black bean quesadilla, I heard a growing rumble. I expected a loud clap of thunder, except the sound reached a crescendo too rapidly, amassing into an earsplitting roar and causing me to reflexively crouch down to the floor. Were we under attack? I ran to the window; no telling signs. Soon, one of the retired Marines who lives on my block came ambling down to his usual evening roost outside my neighbor’s house. His arms were upturned, gesturing that he didn’t know that the hell was going on either. I assumed by that point, nearly 7:05, that it was a Fenway flyover, but these days, one can never be sure.

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