The Last Volley

I wanted to give this story a little something extra.

Fireworks are supposed to be joyful. They’re celebration, summer nights, families spread out on blankets, grills going, kids waiting for the big finale. But I’ve also always been aware that the very thing that makes fireworks exciting for most of us can be deeply disturbing for people who have lived through war.

I think about veterans with PTSD who hear those explosions very differently. For them, the sound we associate with celebration can carry an entirely different meaning. There’s nothing festive about it.

So when I began writing The Last Volley, I found myself wondering what else those fireworks could hide.

That became the little piece of eeriness I wanted to tuck underneath the story. What if the noise everyone was looking up to enjoy was also the perfect cover for something happening on the ground? What if something terrible could happen in plain sight, simply because everyone had been given a reason not to hear it?

That idea became the heart of the story.

The fireworks aren't just scenery. They're camouflage.

And I liked the idea that the reader could experience that realization in two different ways. There is the fictional horror of a gunshot disappearing into a barrage of fireworks—and there is the very real reminder that explosions don't sound celebratory to everyone.

Sometimes the thing we call beautiful is beautiful only because of where we're standing when we hear it.

And sometimes, while everyone is looking up, something else is happening underneath the noise.