It's 12.45 p.m. on January 15, 1919 in Boston, Massachusetts.

37-year-old Martin Clowardy rolls out of bed, blinking himself awake.

As usual, he worked the late shift

at his bar last night. It's rare he's up before noon, and today is no different. He stands and

stretches listening to the familiar industrial sounds of Boston's busy North End. But today,

something is off. A deep rumble vibrates through the floorboards. Martin steps toward

the window, but he never reaches it. The glass explodes inward. Then the wooden wall splinter,

and the floor beneath him gives way entirely. Martin plunges downward into a thick and suffocating

sludge. He sputters, trying to open his eyes. And when his vision

finally clears, he realizes he's being swept down the street by a syrupy brown wave. As the

current begins to slow, he realizes what it is, molasses, fights to stand up in the chest-deep,

sticky flood. Something pale floats past in the chest-deep, sticky flood.

Something pale floats past in the dark liquid,

and looking closer, Martin realizes it's a hand,

and recognizes the rings on the fingers.

It's his sister.

He grabs her wrist before she floats out of reach and pulls, but the molasses resists, dragging her back under.

With one last effort, her head

breaks the surface, and Martin hauls her upright, holding her as she gasps for air. She's alive,

but looking at the wreckage of the North End all around them, Martin can't be sure anyone else is.

Although he managed to save his sister,

Martin Cloherty will soon learn that his mother is dead,

...