Quiet

Quiet

On the third weekend of May in New York, residents of Brooklyn Borough and Manhattan, bordering Hell's Kitchen, felt something was off as soon as they got up that morning.

Murphy rose from his charging chair. Holding his son, who had fallen asleep across his knees, he took heavy steps and carried him back to his room.

As he used his mechanical arm to pull up the covers for his son, a soft body leaned against his back.

Murphy straightened up, a little stiffly, and glanced back at his wife. He raised a finger to his lips and whispered, "Sorry, Claire. David didn't fall asleep until very late, but I..."

Murphy's wife, Claire, smiled and nodded. "Then you should conserve your power, so you can stand up when you need to, instead of putting yourself in that chair every time you come home.

"Murphy, what are you worried about? I love you, and David idolizes you..."

Murphy gently pushed Claire away. As he headed outside, he changed the subject. "This is the house Chief George picked for us. Are you happy with it?

"If I die one day..."

Before Murphy could finish, Claire stepped in front of him and cupped his face in both hands. "Hey, hey, hey, don't say things like that. You're my husband. You have to watch David grow up, then see him go to college and get married."

As she spoke, Claire gazed into Murphy's eyes and asked earnestly, "Do you love me? Answer me. Do you still love me?"

With nowhere to escape, Murphy looked into his wife's tear-filled eyes. After hesitating, he said, "Yes, Claire, I love you..."

Before Murphy could finish what he was saying, Claire turned and headed for the stairs. "I'll make breakfast. What flavor of mashed potatoes do you