Not a fuse. Everything. The streetlamps. The distant glow of Vegas. The satellites. The whole grid, dead. But the jukebox kept playing— “I’m the son of rage and love…” —and through the window, Miguel saw them.
He punched the code. The tubes warmed. A distorted guitar riff crackled through blown speakers like a sermon from a broken radio.
Lou emerged from behind the bar, blinking. “Power surge. You okay, Padre?”
“Still Breathing.”
Then the lights went out.
Miguel slid a finger down the faded song list. His eyes snagged on a title he hadn’t seen since high school: Jesus of Suburbia .
“We’ve been waiting for the last call,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, but it cut through the riff. “We died without hearing our song finished.”