won’t go to the shelter when the sun goes metal. One disables all emergency alerts on her phone, the other perches on the windowsill to count shooting stars. But I can see them jump at the boomboomboom, smoke thinning their voices as they say if only we get hit. It’s not like I go to the shelter either. My shoes have laces. On the news a building is crushed to candy and I drink up my daily medication. The stairwell in our building is reinforced concrete but I only brush my teeth in the bathroom. My roommates schedule suicide plans for the next ceasefire. I mark my calendar. The floorboards quake and they curse their unsteady hands. One is shooting vodka up her butt, the other is shooting robots in a video game. A steel chunk pierces the drywall but the rags must be refolded. I collect shrapnel for later. I ask do you plan to survive your next birthday but sirens pulp her eardrums. When the missile hits, only I don’t shield my head.