I'm one of those guys that know exactly what to do in an earthquake, but my blood and skin boiled when gravity on earth, ceased to exist.

COMMANDER JOHN R. WASHINGTON

(Somewhere in the Nevada desert, June 17, 11:00 pm)

As the desert wind devours the earth, the air force base's alarm goes off. There's a full moon shining in the dark sky. It's showering the military buildings and planes in subtle white light. A red light flickers as the pilots run out from their dormitories and board their F-22 fighter planes. Their boots produce a steady-fast-paced rhythm, crashing their feet into the pavement. Male voices echo throughout the runway. Soldiers crashing into one another put on their gloves and jackets as they go. The sound of engines turning on resonates throughout the airbase, igniting in perfect synchronization. The military planes take off as soon as the control tower confirms their departure.

The squadron leader notifies that his team is air-borne and on route to intercept the bogey.

I get out of bed, put on my military cap and jacket from my room's closet. I see the personnel coming out of their chambers when I get out of my room. They're all dashing towards the operations center half-dressed and running inside the hallways—making me remember the chaos during 9/11. A sour sensation rises inside my chest, my hands are sweating, and I can't catch my breath.

I enter the operations room. The sound of computers, technical equipment, and screams don't let me concentrate. The radar is displaying a series of large dots coming towards us. I dash towards the main computer in the center of the room and turn on the screen.

"The unidentified objects are ten kilometers away!" A member of the space operations staff shouts.

"Squadron leader, can you read me?!" I scream into the microphone in front of me.

But all we hear is static, there's no response.

"Notify the Pentagon and the White House immediately!" I order.

There's white- noise coming from the room's speakers, I can barely distinguish the pilot's voice. The communications personnel is staring at the radar in desperation. A series of green dots appear and disappear each passing second. They're getting closer to our fighter planes. 

There was no warning; if these things came in from the Pacific or Atlantic, why didn't we see it coming? Everything indicates that they appeared here, a couple of miles near the base.

The personnel is biting their nails while watching the radar. Some of them are praying in the corners, paying close attention to the speakers. I guess they're hoping to hear some good news from the squadron leader.

I'm thinking about the political situation between the United States and North Korea. Our countries international relationship is hanging by a thread. I wish I could do something for our workers, I've never seen them so scared. But I keep staring at the radar without blinking.

"Fifteen seconds left to intercept the bogey, commander," the space operations personnel says.

We stare at the radar while the dots increase their speed.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven," the staff says.

The fight planes are approaching a huge group of mountains. Under a shower of midnight stars.

"Six, five, four, three, two, one."

The objects disappear. The lights go out.

Everybody gasps.

Silence.

Static.

Darkness.

"Airbase 34?" The squadron leader says over the radio interference.

The emergency lights turn on. The personnel is silent. I'm afraid that whatever the squadron leader says, it's going to make the newspapers tomorrow. There is a cold breeze entering the room, making every single bone in my body tremble. "This is Commander Washington! Do you have a visual?" I shout, snatching the radio from one of the staff members.

The static sounds louder. We cover our ears and stare at the monitors.

"Rocks!" The squadron leader says.

The interference is constant.

"Flying ones!" he yells.

Everyone remains silent. The night vision screen in front of us displays big boulders hovering in midair. After a few seconds, a loud metal clatter fills the radio as the rocks fall into the white sands of the Nevada desert. I can feel my sweat damping my clothes as I try to understand what I'm witnessing.

WILLIAM THURMAN

(3 days earlier. June 15, 7:00 a.m. Fort Wayne, Indiana.)

My alarm clock echoes. I push play to the awesome sounds of the '80s with one of my favorite songs, Dancing With Myself by Billy Idol. The beat machine blasts the song with energy, and the synthesizers give life to the music. I move my bedsheets away from me and go inside the bathroom. While taking a shower, I swing my shoulders back and forth to the beat of the drums and bounce my head forward to the punch of the electric guitar. I use the shampoo bottle as a microphone while marking the rhythm with my feet. The steam and water droplets fill every corner of the walls as I sing along. I step out and dry my skin with the perfect rectangular-shaped towel inside the cupboard. Today is Friday! My friends, George, Alex, and I are going to play basketball before going to the Glenbrook Mall. It's the final round at the laser game contest—I'm confident about our victory.

I step inside my room again and contemplate my collection of '80s horror movie posters. Time Walker, Silver Bullet, Halloween 2, and my favorite, Friday the 13th. They make me feel a whole bunch of adrenaline and made me remember those settings in the dark, their original scores, and those sleepless nights. I'd give anything in the world to live in that time. Every artwork is so crafted; they inspire me to make my movies or compose my songs. My dad shares my passion, but some kids my age think I'm a hundred percent outdated. Too bad for them.

I make my bed while I dance, making sure to follow my father's accurate instructions. Both sides of the bedsheets must be at the same height with the pillows turned 10 degrees to the right. He insists that I must clean my room every single morning before I even dare to take one foot out of it. If I don't follow his rules, my father would make me do 20 sit-ups before and after I clean it. But that's not all, he makes me eat oatmeal for breakfast, which I hate with all my heart. So, I don't intend to disappoint him any time soon.

I change and head down the stairs towards the kitchen. I keep humming the song as my mother makes breakfast and my dad fixes the garage door. My wireless headphones are at the highest volume. Making my arms and legs move to the beat. I shoot my hand towards the ceiling and grab my mother's broomstick—pretending it is my dance partner. I lean the broom towards the floor, lift it, and spin.   

My mom moves her hand, telling me to tone it down. She shoots her gaze at the door and raises her eyebrows. My mother has a very rare case of autism. She's very quiet and prefers to stick to a daily routine. She has no problem following my dad's tight schedule—she loves it. My father has encouraged her to do whatever she wants but she ends up following his agenda. There's always tears on my dad's cheeks every time he tells his love story. It could easily become a Disney movie if you think about it. The short version is that my father met my mom at the jewelry store where she worked at. He'd always find an excuse to go visit her until it was obvious he wasn't looking for something for his aunt. It was tough for both of them during their first dates, since they needed to be understanding of each other. My mom normally bursts in high emotions or an endless silence. But my father never gave up, and my mother felt safer and calmer every time she was with him.

I take my headphones off and put them away. My father comes in and walks towards the kitchen table as I continue to hum. He stares at me as he takes out a list from his jeans' back pocket. My mom sits beside him and kisses him on his cheek. There's a scent of warm bread, butter, and maple syrup everywhere. I start eating as he reads out all of our activities, one by one. Starting with my mom's chores.

After reciting all the basketball games he's going to coach today, he looks at me and raises his eyebrow. "Basketball Rush game at 5:00 pm; Glenbrook Mall at 6: 30 pm. Is that correct?" my father asks seriously.

"Yes, sir, dad, sir," I say, faking a soldier's voice. 

He checks the two last activities on his list and takes a sip from the orange juice my mom just poured inside his glass. "No wonder you are so cheerful this morning," he says. "I want you back at eight, not a second later, ok?"

"You got it! Would that be eight am or eight pm?" I smile.

My dad smirks and immediately switches back to his normal grumpy face. He stands up and leaves the kitchen—still reading the notes on his spreadsheet.

Having Bill Thurman as a father means to become precise and organized in everything you do. Nothing is out of order, not even the plates we set on the table or the laundry my mom pulls out of the washing machine. I kind-off suck at following all his rules. Discipline would be a better last name for our family, I guess.

My dad is bald and tall; he could scare away even the deadliest criminal. Some people have the impression that he's taller than an average person. But it's because he has a perfect posture and raises his chin every time, he talks to someone. My father's image is one of the most important things in his life. He doesn't accept a single wrinkle in his shirts and organizes them by color. It's like living with someone from the military. But he knows how to have fun and be sweet—at least when school season is over. Still, I wish I could be as brave and tough as he is.

Alex, George, and I learned basketball thanks to my dad. We're the best players at school and leave the twelfth graders in shame. And, if that wasn't enough, we've won Fort Wayne's laser games championship four times in a row. I don't know how we manage to defeat older kids, but nothing can stop us when we're together.

Alex is 17; George and I are 16 years old. Something caught my attention the day we met in elementary school. It's weird when you know who's going to have a deeper meaning in your life. For me, it was the moment when neither of us wanted to get near a pool on a camping trip. All of the other kids were pushing one another into the water. The three of us were the only ones who thought it was stupid. So, we clicked right away and discovered that we had many things in common—starting with basketball. From there, we frequented each other every Friday; then every weekend; then every day. Until we became inseparable.  I can't wait to see them!

I snap out of my thoughts and leave the dirty dishes inside the sink. My mom is already waiting for me outside. She honks the car's horn twice and I dash outside—humming my cool retro song.

ALEXANDER FREEMAN

(June 15, 7:30 a.m. Fort Wayne, Indiana.)

I'm sitting in the backseat of my parent's car. Feeling the rough-teared leather beside me, I look outside to see the trees and the green grass.

I'm holding an old bible in my hand that smells like wet garbage left in the sun for days. I manage to hide one of my math problems inside its pages. I don't want my foster parents to notice I'm not reading the morning passages. So, I start solving one of the algebraic equations in my head to make it look like I'm concentrating.

I lied to my foster parents when I said that I'm going to be at the chess club this evening. They've hated Will and George since they learned of their existence. They believe that I should only be with people that follow the same religion I was raised in. I think that's stupid. I can't wait to turn eighteen and get out of their house. I can't keep living a fake life. I'm counting the days.

My foster dad makes a right turn and parks a couple of meters from my school. The usual buses are coming in, and the streets fill with a pack of teens hurling towards the entrance.

I notice Will from a distance, walking beneath a morning sky and the first rays of sunshine. He's wearing his blue Polo shirt, jeans, and white sneakers. My heart races. I see my foster father staring at me from the driver's seat. "Make sure you finish your passages and hand me your grades at the end of the day," he says in a soft voice.

"Come straight back home after your chess game," my foster mother says, grabbing her rosary with a tight grip.

"Yeah," I say, opening the car's door and stepping out.

I give a few steps towards the main building and wait until my foster parents drive away. My school has a huge set of stairs and a garden with two fountains surrounded by red roses. The structure has translucent exterior materials that allow students to see what's happening inside. At dawn, the building glows in a subtle white light that embraces the streets.

I take my math problem from inside the bible's pages and throw the damn book in a trash can. I know that many would kill me if they saw this. But that thing has tormented me enough. According to its passages, I'm not worthy of the life I've been granted. So, it can go straight to hell.

I hurry up and try to catch up with Will, but I lose him in the crowd. There're more people than expected outside. I'm guessing that most students are staring at me because of the laser game's finale. Everybody has been talking about how annoying it would be if we win again. So, I put on my hoody and lower my head. I walk looking at my feet as I open the entrance door.

I reach my locker and open it after crossing the long hallway. I notice someone is following me as I take my locker key out of my pocket. I turn around and notice Vanessa, one of the most popular girls in school, walking towards me. She's an African American girl with long black hair, wearing a pink shirt, white jeans, and a single golden necklace. She's being accompanied by two of her bodyguard girlfriends.

Half of the guys in school would murder to go out with her.

"Hey, Alex! My friends and I want to invite you to Ashley's party this Saturday. Just wondering if you're able to come this time?" she says while playing with her hair.

I'm dumbfounded. I don't know what to say every time a girl asks me out. Vanessa caught me off guard this time. My mind is damped with thoughts. I'm feeling guilty for not telling my best friends about me being adopted; that I want to run away next year; that I hate my foster parents with all my cosmic energy.

That I might be a little different.

Vanessa chuckles and bites her lips. She joins her knees together and does a subtle movement with her shoulder.

I raise my eyebrows, sweat, and stutter. How can I get out of this awkward conversation?

"HEY LOSERS!" somebody screams.

The three girls and I turn around and look at the end of the hallway. The rest of the students do the same. It's George, wearing dark glasses, a Raiders cap turned backward, a Pokémon t-shirt, and some tear-up pants.

"Thank god," I whisper. 

GEORGE CARTWRIGHT

(June 15, 8:00 a.m. Fort Wayne, Indiana.)

I'm looking at everybody in the hallway. I can see my nerdy friend, Alex, staring at me. He's wearing black clothes and those big-bottled eyeglasses of his. That lucky bastard has three of the hottest girls in school drooling all over him. I can tell he sucks at talking to the female species. So, as his cool friend, I'll take those girls for myself and teach him the manly way of winning their hearts. But first, I'm going to mock these idiots. None of them have a chance to beat Will, Alex, and me at the laser game this evening.

I walk towards a group of boys. They stand back and stare at me while I scream at their loser faces. I pound my chest like a Gorilla and jump from side to side—dancing the Gangnam style as I move forward. "You all suck!" I scream while giving them a thumbs down.

"Get a life Cartwright!" some twelfth-grader yells. 

I don't care what they say. I put my hand on my forehead in an "L" shape and start throwing everybody's books to the ground, and kick them towards the wall. There's laughter and booing all over the place. But I continue with my happy dance towards goofy Alex.

I stand in front of him and Vanesa, making an ultra-sexy movement with my hip. The rest of the school laughs in jealousy, of course. They can't stand this manpower, no sir. The girls have their mouths open and Alex is covering his face with his hand. "Sup, Alex! Aren't you going to introduce me? Again," I ask.

There's a long pause.

Silence.

Alex is staring at the end of the hall in terror.

My face stiffens, my body freezes. I can hear high heels clacking behind me. I know that sound; that pounding on the floor with such vigorous rhythm. It sounds like a fat duck running on wet stones.

I told her never to walk inside the school.

The echo sounds intense as I turn around to face the hallway.

"Poochie face! Oh! my dear poochie face! You forgot your lunch box," my mom screams. "You can't go without eating! You need your energy for that game you have with your friends. Oh! You're my adorable and lovable poochie face, see you after dinner, I love you!" She says, kissing me violently on my forehead and strolling down the hallway in a heist.

Everybody is holding their breath, trying not to laugh.

Vanessa is staring at me with her mouth wide open; twisting her perfect curly-dark hair with her finger. Her girlfriends look at each other and giggle before bursting into laughter. Vanessa takes a deep breath, turns to face Alex, and giggles. "You can most definitely come alone Alex," Vanessa says, telling her girlfriends to follow her with her hand.

The three of them walk away.

"They'll be back," I say in a confident tone, hitting Alex's shoulder.

He takes his hand away from his face and stares at me. There's laughter in the background. I try my best not to die from total embarrassment. This reminds me of when I was bullied a couple of years back. I don't ever want to feel like that again. If it wasn't because of my pals here, I'd probably be dead.

Alex touches my shoulder and smiles.

"Thank you, that was close," Alex says.

"Man, I don't understand why would you scare those chicks away?" I ask.

"I did that?" Alex says, pointing at himself.

"Common, man. You just got to show them your talents, and they'll be begging for more," I say while we start walking towards our laboratory.

I notice Will is coming out of the boy's room, he lifts his hand and dashes towards us with a huge smile on his face.

"I saw everything," Will says, giving me a pat on my back and shaking Alex's hand.

"I hope you two learned something today," I say.

"Not to confuse cocaine with sugar? Alex asks.

"The meaning of 'poochie face'?" Will giggles.

"No! How to gain respect from your peers and leaving the ladies in shock," I say.

"Oh! You got that last part right. I think they're going to get their eyes bleached," Alex says, laughing.

Will grabs us from our shoulders as we start walking towards our classroom. Today we're kicking this entire school's butt!