You look outside: Ah, it's snowing. But look closer. Those are not snowflakes falling from the sky! What is it snowing at your house?

The white flakes fall like snow. They don't melt when they hit the ground. It's June and eighty degrees outside. They should melt. But they simply fall, then stay. I reach down and touch one. It sticks to my pointer finger, like snow would, but it's not cold. It looks like sugar. I wonder if it tastes like sugar too. I open my mouth to take a lick, but my phone rings.
The caller ID reads my boyfriend, Lewie. I hurry to pick it up, dusting the white stuff off my finger in the process.
"Hey baby, how are you?"
"Been better. There is a bunch of crap falling from the sky. It keeps sticking to my windshield and I can't get it off, even when I use the wipers. Everyone is having the same problem, and traffic is backed up all over. I don't know how I'm going to make it home. I can't even get out of the parking lot."
"Can't you walk?" I ask. His apartment is a block from mine, which puts him about 15 blocks from work.
"Not if I want to live. I hear this stuff falling from the sky is toxic waste. Who knows what will happen if it touches you."
I pull my phone away. My fingers that grasp my phone touched the toxic waste. And the same finger has been touching my cheek.
The phone is on the tabletop before I can hear anything else from Lewie. My hands burn as I wash them under scalding hot water, hoping it'll wash away whatever that stuff is. I proceed to my cheek, scrubbing until it is red in my reflection. That should do it.
I rush back to my phone, Clorox wipe in hand, and scour it. I doubt Lewie is still on the line, so I take my time.
A minute later, I check to see if he's there. To my surprise, he is.
"Lewie?" I question. "Lewie!"
There's no response. But I can hear muffled voices and people screaming. As I pull the phone away from my ear, I realize the screaming is coming from outside my apartment.
I dash back to my patio door, glad that I'd left it open, and try to locate where the screaming is coming from.
The sound ricochets off the buildings around mine, making it hard to find. But it seems like it's coming from the street. I rush to my entryway door, grab a pair of shoes I wouldn't mind never wearing again. After pulling them on, I jog down the stairs, taking two at a time, until I'm at ground level.
There's a crowd of people surrounding someone on the sidewalk. White flakes cover their clothes and hair. Some seem oblivious to it, while others peer at the fluff curiously.
I press through the crowd, ignoring the white flakes that are gathering in my hair and on my face. If these people are still alive, and it's touched them, and I've touched the stuff, then it must not be toxic enough to kill you upon contact.
A little girl lies on her back, her eyes open, but unseeing. It's a look I've seen a couple times, but never on a human, or someone so young. I rush to the screaming woman's side, who must be her mom, leaning over the child.
"Help me!" Her voice is shredded, torn at the seams.
I touch the girls neck. There's no pulse. Her skin is ashen colored, devoid of life. Her throat constricted, like she chocked to death. I tilt her head back and check her throat for an obstruction, but nothing is there.
"What happened?" I ask in my calmest voice.
The lady, who I presume is her mom, shakes her head, sending snot, tears, and saliva sailing in all directions. I can't imagine what she must be going through, witnesses the death of your child.
"We were walking... down the street..." she stammers,  "and... she lifted up... her head... to catch a snowflake on her tongue...and then she just...fell over. I tried to revive her...give her mouth to mouth...but..." a cry builds up in her throat and her body rocks back. She's passed out.
But the look on her face isn't one of peace that people get when they pass out, it's a look of horror. I feel for her pulse. It's slow, too slow.
She makes a chocking noise. I rush to clear her throat, protecting my fingers in case she's having a seizure, but there's nothing there.
I pull back, shocked, and check her pulse again. It's stopped. I begin chest compressions, but someone grabs at my shirt, pulling me away.
People start screaming and darting in all directions. I fold over my body, trying to protect myself from the stampede.
Something isn't right here.
I regain my feet, and get out of the street. I reach for my phone in my back pocket, and head back to my apartment entrance. The entrance is jammed with people, written with looks of fear. I push past and start for the stairs.
Lewie is still on the line. "Lewie. Lewie. Lewie, are you there?"
I keep repeating his name, but there's no answer, just muffled voices, like he's stuck his phone in his pocket and forgot about it.
I hang up and dial 911. I have a bigger problem to worry about right now.
The operator answers and I recount the little details I know from the horrific event that just happened a couple stories beneath my window. The operator doesn't sound surprised or freaked out like I thought she would. In fact, she sounds calm, like this kind of call comes in every day. Maybe it does. Or maybe she's too well trained to get excited about things. She asks questions I can't answer, but I do my best. She lets me go, saying a crew is on their way.
As I hang up, I realize I've made it back to my apartment. I push open my door. I'd left it unlocked in my rush to get to the street.
Glancing at my hands and arms, I realize I have the white stuff all over me. I remove my shoes at the door, and tip toe across my floor, praying none of the unknown substance gets on my hardwood.
In the bathroom, I shake my hair over the tub, trying to get all the pieces out. Then I strip my clothes, tossing them, and the rug I'm standing on, in the washer. I start the cycle, then turn on the shower.
I'm curious what this substance will do once water hits it. But my curiosity isn't appeased, as it breaks apart under the spray and then washes down the drain in tiny crystals.
I decide it is safe to shower and wash my hair to get the rest of it off me.
After a quick shower, I towel off and dress in my most comfortable sweats. After what I've just witnessed, I'm in shock, and can't get warm enough. Pulling the blanket Lewie and I made together on our first year anniversary off the back of the sofa, I wrap it around me. It helps, a little.
The patio door is still open, but I don't have the energy to close it. Besides, I can hear the outside sounds much better this way.
I'm curious if the rescue crews have made it to the woman and her child below me. I pray they have. The way the crowd just disappeared from the street has left it unusually quiet. Especially for a Friday evening.
Red lights bounce off the glass, alerting me that crews have just arrived. I glance at my phone. It's been twenty minutes since I placed the call. That sure took a lot longer than expected. Must be super busy right now.
I find the energy to stand, and walk to my window seat. The bodies are still there, lying on the ground. Crews are checking their vitals, just like I did, but they can tell it's of no use. They are already gone.
I shiver as I return to the sofa, wrapping the blanket tighter.
What happened down there? I'd never seen anyone die like that before. Chocking on nothing. It's like the lady's neck muscles contracted, shutting off the airway, but there was nothing down there.
I rub my hands against my sweats, trying to get the feeling of her skin off mine.
I wish I paid more attention in my CPR class. But I did it just to get a job that I only kept for a week. So, the lessons learned didn't really stick.
Picking up my phone, I dial Lewie's number. It rings three times, and I think he's not going to pick up, but a voice does answer. But not his.
"Hello?" A soft, female voice.
"Hello? Is this Lewie's phone?" I'm super confused, wondering if I dialed the wrong number in my shock. After glancing at the screen, I see I've dialed correctly. I put the phone back to my ear. "Is Lewie there?"
"I don't know." A pause. "I don't know if  Lewie is in this pile of people in front of me or not. But this phone was ringing, and I found it in some bushes next to the parking lot. I don't know who they are. They're all over each other, like they just fell over on top of each other. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help." She's rambling, and it makes me grip my head to stay calm.
"Well, this is Lewie's number I called, so it must be his phone. Is there someone that has short brown hair, spiked in the front, with a business suit on?"
There is a rustling, like the woman is moving. "Does he have glasses?"
I sigh. "No."
More rustling. "Wait. I have to dust them off to get a better look. There's snow everywhere."
Not snow, I think, but don't say anything.
"I think I might've found him."
There is a long pause. So long that I think she's hung up. I keep checking my phone to make sure she hasn't.
"Hello?" Her voice is softer than before.
"Yes? Did you find him."
Another long pause. "I did. But I'm so sorry. He's...he's dead."
"What?" My voice doesn't sound like my own. "What do you mean he's dead?"
A soft sob echoes across the line. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how...but there's five people lying here on the ground, all of them covered with white dust, dead. The only way I know it's him is, I found his wallet in his back pocket."
Lewie. Dead. The two words don't go together. "How?"
"I don't know." It sounds like she's scrambling away. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go."
"No, wait, don't go."
It's too late, she's already hung up. I stare at the phone. Lewie. Dead. The thought bounces around my head, but it doesn't want to stick. I can't let it stick. No way. Not until I know for sure.
I practically fall against the window as I try to see if the rescue crews are still below my apartment. Maybe they know what's going on. They're there.
My heart battles my lungs for space, beating my ribs to a pulp, as I dart down the stairs.
The entry way is even more packed than it was the last time I came in. I slam against the glass door, only to bounce back.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go out there." The door man has a firm look on his face, like he's not to be messed with.
"Why not?"
"Because we don't know what that crap is out there, and we're not about to let people go out there and possibly die while we're watching." He nods toward the rescue crews who have cleared the two people from the street. "Whatever caused that wasn't normal. I'm not about to allow that to happen again. Not on my watch."
"But what about all these people? Are you going to keep them locked in here?"
"Nobody wants to leave. Not with that out there." He nods outside.
I point at the crews. "But maybe they know."
"Doubt it." He says. "They looked just as dumbfounded to find two people dead from no apparent cause as we did."
The flakes are still falling, looking harmless. But maybe they're not. Maybe they're just as Lewie said, toxic. I rub my arms. But I've touched it, and it's hasn't killed me. I glance around at the room of people. They've touched it too, and they look okay. Some are on their phones, others are having hurried conversations with each other, and a couple people huddle together on benches, like holding onto each other will save them.
I feel empty. Will I ever get to hold Lewie like that again. The thought lodges a crater in my throat.
I turn around and return to my apartment. It's the second time I've left the door unlocked today. I'm surprised by my rash actions. I'm clearly not thinking straight, and need to stay put.
I decide to close my patio door. If that stuff is toxic, I don't even want the smell of it in here. Maybe smelling it will kill you. Slowly.
To distract myself, I turn on the TV, looking for a news station. One is on, a special report about the falling flakes, but they don't seem to know what is going on. There is a long list of emergency reports, reports that match the one I called in. Mysterious suffocation.
I stare at the TV for hours, calling Lewie's phone every fifteen minutes, praying he will pick up. Each time, my hope dims a little more. Tears streams down my face, and I have a huge headache. I lie down on the sofa, too exhausted to make myself dinner, and having no appetite to fill, even though I haven't eaten since breakfast.
After midnight, I am woken by my cell phone. It's ringing. I grab it and answer without looking at the caller ID. I'm too shocked by the fact that I fell asleep to notice.
"Em?" The voice on the other line is familiar. 
"I'm here." I choke. If he's calling, it must be bad news.
Lewie's dad's voice cracks. "He's gone, Em."
Those few words shut down my world. I'm lost in a sea of questions, not knowing which one to ask first. Instead of questions coming out of my mouth though, a horrible wailing fills the space. I can't believe it's me, but the pain in my chest warrants a siren like this. I'm dying inside.