Wednesday, March 23 - First day with Sunny. Introduced him to the family.


A perfect circle appears in a condo’s roof in Beijing and the middle-aged businessman in its penthouse unit disappears, confirming the start of the Fourth Attack.

In Vivian’s eighth grade career-and-life class, her friend Teresa is the first to see it on social media. Teresa turns to Vivian on her left and Oliver on her right and the news rippled out in hushed tones halfway across the classroom before Mrs. Lawson, Vivian’s teacher for both career-and-life and homeroom, pauses her lesson to glance at her own phone.

Mrs. Lawson takes a deep breath that garners more attention from the class than her lesson did. “The government declared an Anti-Snatchers Lockdown. For San Francisco, this means everyone should stock up on enough supplies for six months and remain indoors until the Attack ends. We’ll switch to virtual classes starting tomorrow.”

Vivian hears but doesn’t process the burst of questions from her classmates; the clear sky through the window, suddenly heavy with the threat of silvery spaceships, engulfs her thoughts.

Mrs. Lawson goes behind her desk and brings out two cartons of eggs and a box of crafting supplies. “I was on the fence if we should still do the egg baby project, but the lockdown might make it easier.”

She walks between the desks to hand each student an egg. She instructs them to carry the egg with them at all times until they meet again, to practice responsibility. They should name their eggs and write a brief reflection each day.

Erin’s father is the first parent to arrive, briefcase still clutched in one hand, and he whisks her home before she has a chance to assemble protection out of the cardboard and fabric she’s gathered from the craft box. Emmett’s mother comes soon after.

Vivian admires her egg’s creamy roundness. She measures cardboard and builds a perfect hexagon nest, then hot-glues on two layers of felt and a yarn handle. She writes her egg’s name in Sharpie on the nest: Sunny, after how she likes her eggs. Finally, the thought of her brother David waiting for her in his third-grade classroom as it empties overpowers her reluctance to venture outside. She leaves with her egg in her jacket pocket, right hand hovering over it for safety. Mrs. Lawson encourages everyone to take home extra craft supplies.

David’s school stands a block away and she promises him everything will be alright as they walk home. But neither of them can help sneaking glances upwards. Vivian’s arms prickle with goosebumps at their exposure.

Vivian texts Ma, “We’re home, when will you be back?”

It takes her an hour to reply, “The usual, around 10.”

“Should I get groceries for the lockdown?”

Another half hour, “No, I’ll get them.”

Vivian feels relieved she won’t have to face the sky again, then guilty because Ma will instead. She boils frozen dumplings for dinner.

Ma returns red-faced from carrying two bags full of canned goods. But their small kitchen’s shelves are sparse, with rent and electricity taking precedence over preparing for the next attack whose onset remained uncertain until today, and Vivian counts cans in her head as she helps put everything away. 30 cans will only last them a week.

She learned the counting habit from Ma during the miserable two-month Third Attack when she was in fourth grade. She only has hazy memories of hunger and boredom from the three-month Second Attack when she was in kindergarten. She remembers an older student died from starvation, and his classmates insisted he haunted the swing set. Ma frets that the weeks of malnourishment made Vivian small for her age, but so are plenty of other teenagers.

While Ma eats the remaining dumplings, already cold, Vivian shows Sunny to her mother and brother. “I’m supposed to carry this egg around for a class project.”

They both nod distractedly.

Ma says, “The building in Beijing where the man disappeared - I grew up three blocks from there.”



Thursday, March 24 - Storytime with Sunny.

Only two thirds of the class appear in their virtual homeroom. Vivian adds another layer of cardboard to Sunny’s nest to keep him upright on her desk. When she goes to the kitchen for a snack between her first two classes, Ma is in her black work shirt shoving down the last bites of a sandwich. “Oh good, Viv, can you study here instead and keep an eye on David?”

Her brother looks up glumly from their mother’s 8-year-old laptop in the dining room, its lagginess deepening the hell of online school.

Vivian asks, “Wait, you’re still working today?”

“The boss wants to keep the restaurant open. I’ll be fine, the subway is as safe as staying home. It’s only one block of walking outdoors my entire commute.”

“You could call in sick. No one’s going out to eat during a lockdown.”

“I can’t. We’re expecting more delivery orders, and we’re already short-staffed. At least I can keep bringing leftovers home.”

Her mother has worked in restaurants for Vivian’s entire life, and progressed from server to manager soon after the Second Attack because so many others left the industry.

Vivian’s attention wavers in the afternoon and splinters between geometry class, David’s fidgeting, an endless runner mobile game she mindlessly swipes through, and worries about her mother.

Then class ends and a blank afternoon stretches ahead of her. David has switched to Centauri Royale, an online space shooter game, on Ma’s computer, probably before his class officially ended. Vivian asks, “Want to play that on my laptop?”

“Sure.” He takes WASD while she takes the arrow keys. After a few rounds, she lets him play solo. She should ask him about homework, but can’t bring herself to do her own.

Instead, she takes out her tempera painting kit and adds blue swirls to Sunny.

As Vivian paints, she gives her egg a recent history lesson. He should know what a cruel world he’s entered. The First Attack, two years after Ma arrived in America, was the shortest but most devastating. Over the course of six weeks, hundreds of thousands of people mysteriously vanished, and it wasn’t until the first dozen reappearances that world governments acknowledged the existence of extraterrestrials now known as Snatchers. They mandated lockdowns that slightly lowered the rate of Snatchings. An amateur photographer captured the first photo of a Snatcher spaceship: a smooth metallic teardrop. The ships are only perceptible for the fraction of a second it takes for them to Snatch a human.

Vivian finds the Snatching dashboard website and informs Sunny there’s been 10 million reported cases.

Humanity poured new funding into space research. Even so, by the Second Attack, they were only able to determine the ships numbered in the tens, and arrived from the third galactic quadrant. They set up decoy bodies that matched humans in either appearance, chemical composition, or heat. Three of the chemical ones were snatched.

By the Third Attack, several major cities created underground networks for people to carry on a semblance of their lives without venturing outdoors. One of the San Francisco tunnels collapsed after four Snatchings bore holes within a single block, and the city sealed most of its tunnels. The Chinese government managed to shoot down a single ship. It was empty of passengers. The Chinese news Vivian’s mother watches praises the government’s transparency in sharing its findings with the rest of the world and its generosity in letting scientists from other nations visit. Vivian has read other articles convinced that some findings are being concealed, that the US needs its own ship.

And now it’s the Fourth Attack. The end.



Friday, March 25 - Took Sunny to play Centauri Royale and eat broccoli beef from Ma’s restaurant.

During homeroom, Mrs. Lawson says, “Let’s take a photo with our egg babies.”

Most of the class leaves the screen momentarily to retrieve theirs, and Vivian is relieved to see Erin, Ishaan, and Quinn painted theirs too, with a smiley face, an anime face, and polka dots, respectively. Ryan sheepishly sends in the chat, “Sorry I dropped mine and it cracked.”



Saturday, March 26 - Doomscrolling with Sunny!

Teresa sends Vivian a social media clip of a Snatching in Dolores Park, where they met for boba two weeks ago. A woman’s voice calls out to her on-camera probably-boyfriend, “Hi Cameron!”

Cameron, a stubbled man holding a leash attached to a boisterous German shepherd, waves at the camera. The rest of the park is eerily empty; dog ownership dwindled since the First Attack, while cat ownership increased.

Then Cameron vanishes. His end of the leash drops to the grass and the German shepherd turns in confusion. The woman’s voice cracks. “Cameron?” Then unintelligible swearing, then a blurring of the lens, then the scene going to black.

Vivian has seen Snatching videos before, but never so close to home. Her heart thuds and she reaches for the first soft thing to comfort herself: Sunny’s felt nest.

Her phone auto-plays the next video: another Snatching, this one in Paris with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Then a woman Snatched from her couch, the camera shakily tilting up to show the new human-sized hole in the roof before turning off. Indoor Snatchings are rare, but they happen. Then the algorithm mixes in the more horrifying videos of reappearances.

Snatched bodies reappear where they’re taken, days or weeks or never after their Snatching. No one knows if Snatchers return their victims out of empathy or convenience, but the general consensus is the latter, because the state the bodies are returned in belies any empathy. The worst are mangled beyond repair, limbs cleanly severed and reattached at the wrong places, skin turned inside out. Others are mostly intact, but missing limbs or organs. Forensics say the corpses all die 1-2 days before their return, and they always return exsanguinated. A lucky minority return alive and unharmed, dazed with no memory of their Snatching. Some never return.

Another autoplayed video lists the theories for the returns in order of popularity:

1. The Snatchers’ level of space travel technology is close enough to humans’ that weight still matters, and they’re unable to ship everyone back

2. Their level of warfare technology is so advanced that they don’t care if humans retaliate

3. Their psychology is so alien that they don’t understand seeing desecrated bodies would make humans seek retaliation

Vivian scrolls through videos with dreadful fascination until David knocks on her door. “I’m hungry.”

She tears her eyes from her phone and is shocked that it’s already dark out. She grabs a can of tuna and stale crackers to tide them over until Ma’s return.

Ma brings home a takeout container of lukewarm orange chicken and an already-wilting Napa cabbage. Fresh produce is a rare treat in both restaurants and grocery stores now.



Sunday, March 27 - Spent most of the day in the kitchen. Ma joked about scrambling Sunny, but I told her I need to keep him intact to get an A in career-and-life

For lunch, they finish the chicken accompanied by rice and stir-fried cabbage. Their afternoon family project is kimchi. Ma admits she’s never made it before, but there are plenty of recipes online. David wrinkles his nose at the smell, then wiggles his orange fingers at Vivian. She’s in an old t-shirt that she doesn’t mind getting dirty, but yelps and lets him chase her around the kitchen anyway.



Monday, March 28 - Fell down a rabbit hole of DIY videos. I watched one for making a cross-shoulder phone bag out of old jeans, and started working on it for Sunny.



Tuesday, March 29 - Sunny carrier bag done. I’d never be caught outside with it, but who knows when I’ll be outside again.



Wednesday, March 31 - Started next DIY project: a pencil holder with multiple compartments, including a slot for Sunny. It uses upcycled cans, which we have a looot of at home.

David interrupts her crafting session. “Viv, the ceiling’s leaking.”

He tugs her into the kitchen where, sure enough, water drips monotonically in front of their fridge. Already, a small puddle is forming. Vivian puts a mixing bowl below it.



Thursday, April 1 - Worked more on pencil holder. I’m using the felt from the last in-person class, which feels like a lifetime ago

Ma calls their building management on speaker. Yes, they already know about the leaks; the woman on the top floor was Snatched and it damaged the plumbing.

Vivian and David exchange wide-eyed glances and look to the ceiling. They imagine a perfect circle revealing sky five stories above them.

Ma asks, “When can we expect a fix?”

“There’s a shortage of plumbers right now. We have one scheduled for next week.”

Ma replaces the mixing bowl with a mop bucket that only requires emptying once a day.

Vivian takes a photo of their already-warping ceiling and starts to draft a post, but freezes at the caption page. What words could capture her horror while remaining respectful of the neighbor she’s never met and never will?



Friday, April 2 - I don’t understand why it’s so hard to find eggs. Are chickens getting Snatched too?

The water from their sink runs murky and metallic. Her mother calls management again, and they wearily tell her they know, they’ll try contacting more plumbers but don’t get your hopes up.

A few more eggs are missing for the Friday selfie. Mrs. Lawson asks, “Ishaan, what happened to your egg baby?”

He tilts his chin defiantly, “I ate it.”

A third of Vivian’s classmates open their mouths in giggles, but no sound comes out because they’re all muted. She can’t tell if Ishaan was joking. She doesn’t think his family would be at risk of starvation, but she is so sick of beans and canned meat after a week of lockdown.

Vivian checks FlyCart, a drone-based grocery delivery app whose popularity surged in the Third Attack, because her mouth waters at the thought of an omelet. All the chicken eggs, from free-range to brown to organic, are sold out. A half-dozen duck eggs are available for $25.99. No wonder her mother would rather risk the two blocks of exposure for a grocery store run than order FlyCart.

Vivian holds up Sunny for the classroom selfie.



Saturday, April 3 - Pencil holder almost done

David pushes his canned peas around his plate, then pushes his chair back and runs for the bathroom. He makes five more trips that evening, even ditching his friends in the middle of a Centauri Royale game.



Sunday, April 4 - Pencil holder finished. It’s been a nice distraction.

David grows clammy and feverish overnight, and doesn’t want to leave his bed.

Ma asks Vivian, but mostly herself, “Do you think it’s the food? The water? We need bottled water.”

She opens FlyCart and frowns at the water prices. “I’ll do a grocery run.”

Vivian says, “Mom!”

Her mother turns back questioningly.

“Never mind. Stay safe.” Vivian aims her question at the door swinging shut: What will I do if you don’t come back and David doesn’t get better? With a jolt, she remembers it’s his birthday in a week. What if he doesn’t live to 9?

Vivian checks FlyCart, too. A gallon of water costs $19.99.

Ma returns empty-handed. “They’re out of water. I should’ve called ahead of time.”

She orders three gallons on FlyCart.



Monday, April 5 - I wonder what will happen to Emmett’s egg baby. If his family will eat it.

Mrs. Lawson looks like she aged five years over the weekend. “I have some difficult news to share. Emmett was Snatched over the weekend. We don’t know if he’ll return yet, but many of us will feel grief already. I’d like to give us a few minutes to talk about it together.”

The grid of teenage faces remains muted, multiplying Vivian’s own shock and reflecting it back. She could drown in it. She reaches for Sunny’s nest to steady herself.

After an awkward minute of silence, Mrs. Lawson says, “If you’d like to talk to a counselor about it privately, here’s a link to sign up.”

After school, Vivian opens the link and sees all the slots are already full.

Teresa texts her a social media post from Emmett’s older sister, already talking about him like he’s dead. He only went outside for a minute to retrieve a baseball he accidentally threw out the window. Teresa asks, “Do you want to call?”

Vivian dials her number. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know, right?”

They aren’t quite friends with him, but he’s generally likable, hovering on the periphery of their lives since elementary school. “His poor sister …”

Teresa says, “I’m scared.”

To her horror, Vivian starts crying.

Teresa says, “Viv, are you okay?” She sniffles, too. “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

“The … the only homework I’ve been keeping up with is the egg baby project. And it’s a dumb project! I looked it up and it’s from abstinence education!”

Teresa says, “Me too. I’ve been writing pages of logs every day, like a diary. I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing before we hand it in.”



Tuesday, April 6 - More doomscrolling

Vivian scrutinizes her classmates’ social media activity. Jared posts a photo of him and Emmett beaming in their basketball team uniforms captioned, “hope you make it back to us, brother.” Iris posts a text update, “praying for Emmett.” Vivian is surprised to learn she’s religious. Emmett’s best friends Henry and Rachel remain silent.

Gwen and Leona post photos of their lockdown cookie baking, and Vivian flares with jealousy that they can see each other. They live in the same apartment two blocks from school.

Somehow, by the evening, the algorithm returns her to Snatching videos.



Friday, April 9 - Should I keep taking care of Sunny if Mrs. Lawson is Snatched?

Mrs. Lawson doesn’t show up for class. They wait in silence for 5 minutes before Roland asks, “Do you think she got Snatched?”

Quinn says, “I hope not, not so soon after Emmett.” Then, quieter, “And my cousin was Snatched two days ago.”

Vivian says, “I’m sorry. My neighbor got Snatched last week.”

Teresa suggests, “We can play a game while we wait for her.”

She starts an online drawing game, and they play for an hour before giving up on Mrs. Lawson’s appearance. The remaining students take another egg baby selfie before logging off.

At least David is back to normal. Vivian looks up DIY birthday gift ideas and finds a tutorial for cardboard bookends.



Sunday, April 10 - Got an email from Mrs. Lawson saying we still have class on Monday



Monday, April 11 - Only four of us still have our egg babies. A lot of people must’ve given up on the project over the weekend.

Only a dozen students - half the class - sign in on Monday. Roland types, “We were worried you got Snatched”

“I’m fine.” Mrs. Lawson’s voice cracks and she pauses to collect herself. “It … it was my brother.”



Tuesday, April 12 - Used most of the cardboard for the bookends for David. I was surprised he didn’t ask for a game console this year, like he did every year before. I guess he’s growing up.

David asks, “Can I have chocolate mousse cake for my birthday?”

Ma says, “I’ll check if any places still have one.”

She calls up four Chinese bakeries, all of which turn out to be temporarily or permanently closed. She calls a friend next, who points her to a Wechat group, and finally finds a woman halfway across the city who bakes cakes out of her kitchen with glowing Wechat reviews but doesn’t offer delivery. Vivian’s mother makes a pick-up appointment for 10am the next morning.



Wednesday, April 13 - Happy 9 years, David. Happy 3 weeks, Sunny.

Vivian says, “Ma, I don’t think you should go. Or let me go instead. You have work, right?”

Her cabin fever is finally overpowering her fear of being Snatched. And, as proven by their Snatched neighbor, staying indoors doesn’t guarantee safety.

“I’m taking the day off to spend with you two.”

Ma leaves in the morning. The kitchen clock striking noon weaves the first cold threads of dread into Vivian’s chest. Even with reduced transit schedules, the trip shouldn’t take longer than two hours. David asks, “Can we have lunch?”

Vivian glares at him, “We should wait for Mom. The chocolate cake was a dumb idea.”

David bursts into tears. Vivian softens; it’s his birthday, he won’t get any other good presents, he doesn’t understand how much of an endeavor the cake is. Their mother goes out most days, anyway. She texts Ma, “When will you be back?”

Another twenty minutes, and Vivian starts on lunch: white rice, which they’re alarmingly low on, and cream of mushroom soup.

David asks, “What did Ma say?”

“She hasn’t replied yet, but she should be back soon. We can have lunch first.”

After lunch, David cries again. “This is the worst birthday ever. Ma should be back!”

Vivian blinks at the ceiling, willing gravity to prevent her own tears from falling. She lies, “I bet she had to go into work, and will be back with the cake in the evening.”

She plays Centauri Royale with him, then he plays with some friends, who remember to sing Happy Birthday.

Vivian grows increasingly certain that he won’t be getting his chocolate mousse cake. She’s angry at herself for not asking Ma for the baker’s contact info. She calls 911, and a tired man answers. She says her mother went missing somewhere between their apartment and Irving Street. He says he’ll file a report, but there won’t be a search until 24 hours pass.

Vivian asks, “Do you think she was Snatched?”

“I hope not, but without more details, it’s certainly possible.”

“She went out to get a cake for my brother’s birthday.”

“I’m sorry.”

Vivian slips into the kitchen while David plays. She empties the bucket under their still-dripping ceiling, then alternates between searching up chocolate cake recipes on her phone and scavenging for recipe ingredients in their kitchen. She’s relieved to find flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and vanilla that must be years old but still smells right. Of course they don’t have milk, but she finds a dairy-free recipe. David will have to do without mousse.

As for the egg … she pats Sunny’s pouch. She takes her time sifting and mixing dry ingredients, procrastinating on wet ingredients until the mixture is a perfectly blended light brown.

Vivian pulls Sunny out of the pouch and admires how he remains smooth and creamy after weeks of lockdown, when Vivian feels so rumpled and old in her baggy t-shirts, acne sprouting either from the brown water or the unbalanced diet or stress. She whispers, “Sorry. Thank you.” to her egg baby, then cracks it into the shallow well of her dry ingredients.

Half an hour later, the fragrance of cake lures David to the kitchen. Vivian finds a candle and some matches in the same drawer where they keep oven mitts.

She sticks it in the cake. “Happy birthday, David.”