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“I’m parked right out front. I was going to grab her and run for it, but I don’t know why that helicopter is here. I was told to take her to a house in Miller Beach, and Nadia will go on from there. Alba, do you know if there’s going to be a civil war?”

“It won’t be called that. It’ll be more like the Troubles, endless escalations; every time it’s about to be resolved someone will do something provocative. But it’s already happening, Zach. You know we’re in it right now.”

Zach sighs. “I might have to go away for a while.”

I don’t say anything. With antifa it’s better not to ask.

I’m shivering. Zach says, “C’mere.” I turn onto my side and he spoons me. He is delightfully warm. He chafes my hands a little. I can feel his breath on my neck. It’s difficult to concentrate on the important stuff when I’m so warm and entangled with him; I wiggle my ass just slightly and he presses against me. I can feel his hard-on. “You’re living dangerously,” he tells me.

“You, too,” I say. I turn over so I’m on my back again. Zach puts his arm across me so he’s leaning over me, his face inches from mine.

“Say the words I need to hear,” he murmurs.

“I want you to kiss me,” I reply, and he does.

Zach: We kiss. All night she and I have been gradually morphing from two individuals, strangers, into one pair; for these few minutes we escape our worries; for a few minutes I don’t care about anything but Alba, her mouth on mine, and a whole world in miniature created between us. It’s such a relief to be with her. I feel a pressure I’ve never been able to name suddenly lift: I have a sense of lightness, and I’m kissing and grinning at the same time. Alba opens her eyes and says, “What’s funny?” and I can’t explain so I say, “All this . . . why do I feel so doomed and so happy at the same time?”

Three knocks on the door, not loud, but we both tense up. A woman whispers, “Hey, Alba. Zach.” I swivel off the bed. Alba pulls one of the straps of her dress back onto her shoulder and I feel a pang of interrupted need. The door handle turns, left right left. Alba whispers, “Who is it?”

The woman whispers back, “It’s the plumber. I’ve come—”

Alba flips the lock and opens the door. It’s Rosa and Nadia.

Alba: Rosa gives me a reproachful look as she and Nadia enter the room. The sleeping bags are tumbled across the bed and Zach’s hair is mussed, so things do appear a little complicated. Zach puts on his jacket and sits on the bed. I shut the door and wait for the explanation.

Rosa hisses, “The hell are you doing turning off your phone?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Zach says to Rosa, softly but with an insincere smile. To Nadia he says, “Where’s Junior?”

“Very asleep,” she says. “Jeepers, what a night.” She seems perfectly sober, and then I see that she’s been crying. Nick and Caralora must have told her that Zach has come to take her into hiding. A chill passes over me. When will I see her again?

Nadia and Rosa are both wearing their coats and boots. Nadia hands me mine, along with my purse and the jeans and hoodie I left home in this evening. Zach turns his back as I strip off the silver dress and put on my own clothes. As I finish tying my bootlaces, Rosa says, “We need to get to the basement. Immediately.”

We follow her down the stairs and through the rooms full of sleeping people. It’s very quiet, and we sound like a small army as we tread gingerly across the creaking wooden floors. I can hear mourning doves cooing outside. The helicopter returns, higher up than before. Junior is sprawled on the love seat, unconscious.

I look around and realize that all these sleeping people are more than asleep; Nadia catches my glance and makes the sign for a spiked drink. Rosa is efficient. We file through the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry. The hidden door in the back of the pantry is ajar; we slip through it, down the stairs, into the basement. Nadia shuts the door after us and slides the bolts home. I grab the flashlight from the shelf by the stairs and turn it on. Max, Joe, Nick, Caralora and my older self are all standing a few feet away from us, so perfectly silent that Zach and I gasp and Rosa grips my wrist.

Everyone is wearing street clothes. It’s hard to tell in this light, but I think Caralora has removed her makeup. She leads us through the small rooms of the basement, the shelves cluttered with bicycle pumps, jam jars, paperbacks and old electronic devices, until we arrive at a rickety wooden door with a combination padlock. Nick does the combination. Behind this door is a steel door with a finger pad, and he presses his thumb to it. The lock clicks open.

My heart is pounding. I take Zach’s hand. I remember when the Lamonts had this panic room installed, after the 2016 election, but I never imagined using it for real. It’s not a large room, but there’s seating for six people, some fold-out cots, and cases of bottled water and canned food. On top of the cases sits an open laptop showing surveillance footage of the oblivious partygoers upstairs. Nick locks the door behind us.

My other self is fully dressed, but not in Caralora’s clothes. I look at her more carefully and realize that she’s older than the self we were with earlier; her hair is going gray. “Where’s Lucinda?” I whisper to her. “Still asleep upstairs. I’m with her,” she replies.

We stand in a semicircle around the laptop, waiting. It’s chilly down here. Zach puts his arm around me. My older self gives us a small, private smile. Rosa stands impassively with her hands clasped together behind her. Nadia leans against Nick, who holds her close. Max and Joe are both frowning. Caralora hugs herself; she always feels the cold acutely. Other Alba goes to her and wraps one arm around her. We watch the feed of the rooms above us. The computer’s clock reads Tue 5:34 a.m. While we wait I think about the footprints I saw earlier, circling the house next door. Who was the person I saw on the porch? How will anyone leave this house now without leaving telltale footprints?

There is movement in the living room. White-clad figures appear—I can’t tell where they’ve come from—they are wearing hoodies and masks, probably surgical gloves, too. On the surveillance feed they appear to be human-shaped blanks, moving across the screen like empty space. It’s hard to say how many of them there are. There is no audio, so they work in silent concert, wrapping prone figures in white sheets, lifting them and carrying them out of the room. Five bodies. We can hear footsteps above us, treading slowly and heavily toward the back door, then quickly back again.

“Are they dead?” Caralora whispers.

“No,” Rosa and Other Alba reply, almost at the same time. Nick shushes them. “Just heavily sedated,” Rosa adds softly.

“Who are they taking?” asks Zach.

“Junior, Buddy, Art, Rick and Terry,” Nadia says grimly. Her screen-lit face reminds me of a painting by Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith Slaying Holofernes, in which the heroine calmly beheads the surprised enemy after seducing him. Nadia’s expression is grave, avid; she stares at the computer as though she cannot get enough of this moment. Months ago, I said that we were asking too much of Nadia, that no one should have to be so intimate with such a terrible person. She kept insisting that she was fine, but now I know she is not.

“How will they take them away?” I ask, thinking of the helicopter and the searchlights. “How will we get out of here?”

“Streets and San are here to take them,” Max whispers. “They’re in the alley, in white vans.”