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Another day with brilliant sunshine. The sailboats in the harbor were resting easy on their moorings near the restaurant on the salt run. The old Plymouth, laying down its usual unintentional smoke screen, hardly attracted any attention. Traffic was stopped as usual for the drawbridge to pass the waiting two sailboats that were preparing to go out for a day of sailing. The line was growing on both sides of the Bridge of Lions. The Plymouth slowed to a quiet stop, windows down, as the swarthy driver leaned his chin on his arm resting on the open window edge. He reached over to the keys and switched off the engine. As he brought his hand back, he accidentally bumped the little toggle switch next to the ignition. The explosion rocked the bridge! The smoke cloud mushroomed upward. The sailboat that just happened to be crossing under the center of the bridge rocked then shook from the falling chunks of bridge concrete that crushed its aft deck. Cars bounced crazily as the bridge started to collapse. Pieces were falling into the river. One, then a second and a third car slid off the bridge, now almost hanging unsupported in mid air. The cars plopped into the morning incoming tide, bounced up once, some twice then sank amidst a mass of bubbles. People still on the bridge began jumping into the water trying to avoid the pieces of steel superstructure and decorative concrete from the crumbling bridge. An automatic look of horror crossed Ahmed’s face for the second or so it remained on the front of his head. All hell had broken loose.
