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The bar was empty except for Lou, the one-armed owner, who nodded toward the jukebox. “On the house, Padre. Pick something. It’s been ten years since anyone played it.”

People walking out of the desert. Dozens. Then hundreds. Their clothes were from every decade: a housewife in a 1980s nightgown, a soldier with a 2003 helmet, a kid holding a skateboard with rusted bearings. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out—except they were all humming along to the song.

Miguel understood. These weren’t demons. They were the forgotten—the kids who overdosed in bathroom stalls, the veterans who pulled triggers in garages, the runaways who froze under overpasses. They’d all listened to Green Day. They’d all believed, for three minutes at a time, that someone understood their rage.

Lou emerged from behind the bar, blinking. “Power surge. You okay, Padre?”

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.