Never Again

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Ben Shapiro’s flying was sloppy. Downright dangerous. Flying his high-performance sailplane was instinctive, a twenty-first-century remnant of seat-of-the-pants aviation. Sometimes he shut his eyes and imagined his arms spread wide, hands cupped, catching rising air currents under his wings.

The sailplane veered side to side as Shapiro floundered through rising air currents. He should have sensed the lift, banked his wings and circled like a hawk. Instead he bumped through the air, consumed by what he’d heard on the radio as he pulled into the Plymouth, Massachusetts, Soaring Society parking lot.

“An apparent atomic bomb has detonated in Tel Aviv, Israel’s second largest city.” The NPR news reader struggled to speak calmly. “No nation or organization has claimed responsibility…

“The mushroom cloud was visible in Jerusalem, thirty-five miles away.”

Never even been to Israel, Shapiro thought. Wonder if I ever will now.

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