Exit Wound by Bethany Bruno

The night the sirens came, my mother was labeling leftovers.

She used blue painter’s tape and a black marker that bled through plastic.

Rice-Monday. Chicken-Tuesday.

She pressed each lid twice, firm, like she could seal time inside the refrigerator. Outside, cicadas rattled in the palms and the air smelled faintly of salt and wet asphalt.

When the sirens started, she did not look up.

“Probably a wreck on US One,” she said.

I stood at the sink with my hands in dishwater gone cloudy with grease. Red light slid across the window above the faucet, then blue, then red again. The flashes felt too close. Too many.

A helicopter passed low enough to shake the cabinets. A spoon jumped in the drying rack and settled.

That was when my mother stopped writing.

The marker hovered over the container. Her mouth stayed open.

“Go lock the back door,” she said.

I didn’t move. Soap slid off my fingers and pooled in the basin.

Outside, someone shouted a name. Not loud. Not long. Just enough to travel between houses packed too close together.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Then again. A neighborhood alert. Police activity. Stay inside. Avoid the area.

She peeled the tape from the chicken container and pressed it back on crooked. Tuesday no longer lined up with the lid. The refrigerator hummed, steady and unconcerned.

The sirens shut off one by one. The quiet rang louder than the noise had.

We stood at the table without sitting, hands resting on the backs of the chairs. The house felt suspended, like the moment before a summer storm opens. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked and stopped.

My phone buzzed again.

I looked.

It was Evan.

I’m not hurt.

The breath left my body all at once, sharp enough to sting.

My mother watched my face.

“What is it?”

“He’s okay,” I said. “Evan’s okay.”

She nodded once. Then again. Her shoulders lowered, but not all the way, like she did not trust relief to last.

Outside, footsteps passed the house. Radios crackled. A car door slammed. A car alarm went off and kept going after no one came to shut it off.

My mother picked the marker back up.

“Eat the chicken tomorrow,” she said. “It won’t keep in this heat.”

She crossed out Tuesday and wrote Wednesday smaller.

Later, after the street went quiet, after the helicopter drifted inland and the night stitched itself together, I lay awake listening to the house settle. The air conditioner cycled on and off. Moisture gathered along the windows.

By morning, yellow tape would block the corner. Neighbors would gather under the live oak and speak in lowered voices. Someone would say it was a shame and mean they were grateful.

By evening, the tape would come down.

The refrigerator would still be full.

And somewhere in the dark, another brother’s name would keep being called, just not where anyone could hear it.

Bethany Bruno is a Floridian author. She holds a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida. Her work has appeared in more than a hundred literary journals and magazines, including The Threepenny Review, The Sun, McSweeney’s, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, and The Huffington Post. A Best of the Net nominee, she has won multiple writing contests, including the 2026 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest. Learn more at www.bethanybrunowriter.com.