Pam hates Tuesdays. It's a hopeless day - closer to last weekend than next without the excuse of Monday to pardon sullenness. Succinctly, Tuesdays suck.

So, when missiles start flying on a faceless Tuesday, she thinks, "well, obviously."

The Nation's nerves jiggle but remain intact. "Deploy" and "heightened alert" plummet from Average American's lips. Her world doesn't change that much. Circumstances and actions don't escape Pam's notice, but really, haven't we been doing this for a while now? Her reality still revolves around holding her breath for just a moment when the phone rings and a routine for checking e-mail that turned the corner to ritual weeks ago.

But then another Tuesday comes, and fire rains on Washington, and both the Nation and Pam reevaluate the world, their place in it, ramifications, and the future.

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Jim is in New York when Washington crumbles. The city locks down. Subways stop running. Bridges and tunnels are blocked. No one enters; no one leaves.

Government scrambles to retain footing. First step: halt communications as much as possible. E-mails bounce back; bars on cells drop from five to nothing; rapid busy signals scream from land-line receivers. Any step necessary to inhibit insurgent, terrorist or sympathizer communication. Telegraph and ham radio become the wave of the future. Step two: martial law and tanks in the streets - America as Beirut. Television and radio urge calm and patience, parroting phrases speakers squawk as tanks rumble by.

Jim stares out a window, thankful, at least, for the bed and shower his hotel room supply. Three tanks roll over city streets lined with vehicles and meters that have been blinking expired red for days. They split north, east and west at the next intersection, and the sight causes him to blink and think of Dali. His mind moves to her and he channel surfs, searching for something he can't see just by glancing out a window.

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The American east coast prepares to become a ghost town. With the exception of military personnel, everything north and east of D.C. is being evacuated. Cities previously locked tight disgorge citizens in weary, stunned streams and bursts. Life histories are reduced to two bags per person. Panic slithers behind voices shaking to be calm. Families unlucky enough to be separated at the time of attack request information from officers with digital tomes of dead and wounded, but silently beg to receive no definitive answer. Walls still standing become impromptu bulletin boards as survivors leave messages to missing loved ones.

"Mark, the kids are with me. We're headed to my parents in Nashville." "Lois, I can't find you. I have the puppy and I'm going to my brother's in Omaha." "Thomas, I really hope you see this. My brother didn't make it. His daughter is with me. I'm with your sister- we're headed to Indiana." "Becky, please be alive. I'm going to your parents and I pray we find each other."

Buses, automobiles and trains packed to capacity head west/south, and America's heartland opens and embraces her refugees.