Edward Drake

THE SUN WILL EXPLODE

A short story by Edward Drake

_

I’M DREAMING OF RAYE. Beautiful, sweet, kind, patient, Raye. She uses a glass to trap a spider and takes it outside. Places it on a tree. 

The sun bursts. A bright star becomes two eyes. Headlights. The Audi swerves into our lane. Raye jerks the wheel right, then left. Our little Honda loses traction. 

Impact. 

We’re both thrown forward. Her head hits the steering wheel, mine the dash—

Darkness.
Eyes of light race by. 

A star field in an abyss.

I’m floating through the empty void between the lights.

Ahead, a star shifts from a bloody red to a cool blue. The color of her eyes. I hear a voice. Hear is wrong. Feel. Soft, caring, warm. The voice is full of love. A kind of love that I only knew with Raye. 

“Three days,” says the voice in a language I’ve never heard but immediately understand, “until all that is. Will be all that was.”

I wake numb. My outstretched hand on her empty side of the bed. The crash is a familiar nightmare. Whatever came after was new. Refreshing. 

Before I start my day, my therapist says the best thing I can do is drink water, then meditate. I resisted for the first few months, but have come to appreciate the routine. 

“Siri, play my meditation mix and set a timer for fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” she chirps like everything is okay.

I sit on a cushion in the living room of our apartment. The East River just barely visible over the Brooklyn skyline. I close my eyes. Try to ‘watch’ my breath. Focus my attention on anything but my racing mind. Though my eyes are closed, I see remnants of the star in the darkness. 

The gym in our apartment building is empty, save for the guy I have saved in my phone as “17A Kyle.” He’s usually out before I arrive, but today he’s just sitting on the rowing machine staring at his phone. I think nothing of it. Break a sweat on a running machine. Get the endorphins going. Push. Push. Push. Push myself to failure. 

An hour later, sweat runs down my body. I’m exhausted. Empty. The shadows of my grief depleted. Kyle is still staring at his phone. He meets my eye, and in an instant, I can tell he’s just lost someone. It’s a sixth sense you get when a piece of your heart dies. His million-yard stare tells me it was someone close. I feel for him. Hope it’s not his husband. Kyle and I are about the same age. We had a joint birthday, years back, for our 33rd. We’re too young to both be widows. The last thing I wanted when I lost Raye was to talk about it. 

I leave Kyle with his pain. 

Clouds blot the rising sun. I try to log in to my work terminal. I have a performance review with the London team. They said it’s just a “confab,” a phrase I had to Google to realize means “discussion,” and I expect I’ll be speaking with HR soon about an exit package. I’m about to lose my job. I should be more concerned, I know I should be, but everything just feels so trivial. When I met Raye, I wanted to be a musician. Can’t remember the last time I picked up an instrument. Reality killed that dream and replaced it with a career in Cat Bonds, also known as Catastrophe Bonds. For years, I’ve spent my working hours staring at a Bloomberg terminal, watching weather patterns in the South Pacific and seismic data in Chile, and how the price of soy futures rises and falls. If the earth stays still, I lose money. If the wind blows too hard in Shanghai and freight is delayed, I get a bonus. We’ve turned the wrath of God into a yield percentage. But my Bloomberg terminal flashes a warning message. “Markets Closed.” 

I check my calendar. It’s not a bank holiday. I notice Mike & Elana’s wedding is just two days away. I promised I’d go. I haven’t worn my suit since the funeral. I don’t have a gift. I’ll check the registry later. I refresh my terminal. Still, the same message appears. Markets Closed.

The New York Times article reads like an elaborate prank. I check Instagram. Posts appear from friends and random strangers, all describing the dream. Of floating through nothing and hearing a voice. I turn on our TV for the first time in months. Don’t remember how to get a news station. I see CNN is live-streaming and click on it. A weary, silver-fox anchor intones, “… A strange phenomena… The world is waking, everyone seemingly having experienced the same dream…” 

I watch for a while. In real time, journalists locate the epicenter of the dream. Iceland, they say. A nervous NASA scientist refuses to comment on the cause. She starts to mention the Parker Solar Probe, which orbits our Sun, detected a fluctuation. But before she finishes her sentence, the signal cuts out.

Darkness. 

The day drifts on. 

I clean the house and periodically try to log in. Markets Closed.

I stand on the fire escape, popping the cork on the Dom Pérignon I was saving for our ten-year anniversary. I idly stare at the moon, pale and useless in the afternoon sky, and wonder if I should start smoking cigarettes again.

My gaze returns to our doomed planet. In the apartment building across the street, a hundred windows flicker with the exact same blue light. They’re all watching The White House briefing. 

The President urges calm and introduces a nervous NASA scientist. She can’t explain the dream, but she shares the final telemetry received hours ago from the Parker Solar Probe.

“Our Sun will unleash a catastrophic solar flare in 71 hours and six minutes. 8 minutes and 20 seconds later, the lethal blast of radiation and light will reach Earth and eradicate all life on the planet…”

I ask Siri to set a timer. 

21 HOURS UNTIL

From my meditation cushion, I watch a mass of “early exiters” leap from a skyscraper. Trying to control the inevitable. Whoever was on the street below must have thought it was raining bodies. 

Hope nobody was hurt. 

Everyone and their dog has a theory. Who spoke to us in our dream? God? An alien intelligence wanting us to know our end was near? The Jungian superconsciousness communicating our shared nihilism? I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Knowing won’t bring me any peace. But I wonder, if I had terminal cancer, would I want to know or live my last days in bliss and ignorance? 

Ignorance. No, I’d want to know. Would I? What good would it do? Yes. I’d want to know. I think.

I saw panic on the first day. Then the emptiness settled in. A few friends messaged, asking if I was okay. I left them on read, not wanting to lie and tell them I was fine and that they should make the most of the time they have left with their loved ones. 

Mike calls. Asks if I want to help set up for the wedding. I say I have a hot date. He laughs. Says he’ll see me tomorrow. I promise I’ll make the wedding. I hope I mean it. 

The rest of the afternoon dissolves. I unpack the dishwasher. The plates are still warm. The first time I emptied this machine after the crash, I broke down holding a lopsided mug she’d made during the pandemic. Back when she joined a ceramics studio to pass the lockdown. Raye and I used to fight about this machine. No, not fight. Bicker. There’s a difference. We’d fight about getting a cat, she wanted one but I was stubborn, but we’d bicker about the fact I preferred washing dishes by hand. I liked the tactile certainty of it. Raye insisted on the efficiency. “Just try it for a week,” she had said. “Think of the time you’ll get back.”She was right. I got some time back. I just didn't know I’d be spending the empty hours waiting for the clock to run out.

I try to nap, but I’m tense. Agitated. Pissed off. I did all the work. All the therapy. Now, we’re all going to die anyway? Whatever. My life started with Raye. It ended when her light left. 

When I do fall asleep, I don’t dream. 

12 HOURS UNTIL THE END

Mike’s nerves are getting to him. As one of his six groomsmen, I feel a responsibility to try and calm his nerves. It’s what he would do if the roles were reversed. “Relax. Think of it this way. If you screw up the vows? You won’t have to live with the embarrassment for long.”

The groomsmen all laugh. We take a shot. Another. Fuck it, the whole bottle is gone in less than a minute. Mike forces a smile. Puts on a brave face. Something is on his mind. He’s been looking forward to this day. Always wanted a big wedding. To be a good husband and father. Said we’d raise our kids together, tell ‘em they were siblings. We’ve known each other since high school. Bonded over our dream to start a band. Dreams of playing Madison Square Garden. He ended up getting a job in “customer success” for a tech startup. 

I ask when was the last time he broke out his drum kit. It’s in the garage, he says. Says maybe he’ll break them out tonight. Count us down to the big finale. The end of the show. No encore. Our last chance to leave it all on the dance floor. 

The turnout for the Wedding At The End of the World is, quite frankly, overwhelming. What better place to be than celebrating the love of two incredible souls in a Brooklyn backyard on the eve of the apocalypse? Fairy lights strung above twinkle like the stars from our shared dream. Indoor furniture has been dragged onto the grass, but it is hopelessly outnumbered. The yard is standing room only. Before the grid went down, Mike learned the caterers had cancelled. Understandable, but infuriating. They refunded the deposit in a currency that would be worthless by Tuesday.

So the neighborhood stepped up. It became a potluck at the end of the world. Guests arrived with whatever was left in their pantries, a feast of 'use it or lose it.' A wheel of expensive Brie sits next to a bag of stale Cool Ranch Doritos. Vintage champagne chills in a trash can beside warm Gatorade.

We have enough food to feast for a week. But all we have left is this moment.

When I see the betrothed, I see Raye’s lifeless body. Mike and Elana were in the car that night. Two years previous now. Feels like yesterday and forever ago. We all got a good look at the asshole driver in the Audi who swerved into our lane and caused the “accident.” Told the cops what happened. Mike’s dad, Logan, an NYPD lifer, pulled strings. Came up frayed. Nothing, he said. The Audi and the asshole owner vanished in the Brooklyn night. We’d been at a warehouse party. Raye wanted to be the DD. Fought me on it. I wish I’d been driving. Wish it had been me. Her neck had been angled just the wrong way. Raye was looking at me when she hit the steering wheel. Then the air bag deployed. Snapped her neck. The EMTs said it happens often. Said it like it’s supposed to make me feel better. No justice for Raye. Just the mercy of a fast death. 

Logan’s strong hands clasp me on the shoulder and pull me back to the present. I’m an only child. Never knew my own dad. After I turned 18, mom moved to Washington and met a guy. Haven’t seen her since Raye’s funeral. Logan thumps me on the back. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be, son.”

He must be in a sentimental mood. Never heard him say anything close to poetry before. 

I spot the bulge on his hip. His gun. It’s like another limb, I’ve never seen him without it. Can never be too safe, especially now. Everyone expected riots. Law and order to break down. But the end of the world was met with a kind of quietness I know well. Some are scared and don’t want to die. Most just don’t know what to do with themselves. Mourning a future that never will be. Looting was rare. Nobody wanted televisions they wouldn't live to watch. Instead, reports of violence dominated the news. Old grudges remembered that had to be revenged. I stopped watching the news. Felt better for it. All I know is that I should be present and celebrate the love of my two friends. It’s okay to be happy, I remind myself. It’s what Raye would’ve wanted. Logan looks like he wants to tell me something, but tears up. I smell the booze on his breath. See the wobble as he tries to stand up straight. “Slow down, young man,” I say. “The night is young.”

Mercifully, neither Mike nor Elana has mentioned Raye today. But she’s here in an unspoken way. Elana has only five bridesmaids. The sixth place has been reserved for Raye, in her memory. We were the four musketeers. 

Elana was to Raye like Mike is to me. 

More than friends. 

Chosen family. 

A neighbor's baby grand piano has been dragged into the backyard. Elana’s little sister Paula at the keys. Playing a cover of Arcade Fire’s “The Suburbs” as we walk down the aisle. Raye’s favorite song at karaoke. I miss her voice. Listening to old voicemails just doesn’t do it justice. 

The groomsmen make their way to one side. Bridesmaids on the other. A friend of Elana’s is the officiant. Mike tried to set us up a few months ago. I wasn’t ready then. Never will be. Mike & Elana’s families never got along, but I see them seated side by side. Even Mike’s wheelchair-bound and slightly racist great aunt Iris is here. Mike’s got a bigger heart than I do. If it were me, I wouldn’t have invited, let alone accommodated, her at my wedding. 

Elana walks down the aisle in all white. Joy in her eyes. I remember how beautiful Raye looked the day we tied the knot at the courthouse. It was so I could get on her insurance plan when I was between jobs. We both knew it was more than that. We said we’d do a big wedding one day, when we could afford it. She would have loved this day. Tears and laughter at the vows. Then everyone is clapping. I was thinking of the way Raye would bite my lip after a long kiss and missed the I do’s. 

11 HOURS NOW

The sun has all but set. The next time we see it, it will be for mere moments before the extinction of all life on earth. Celebrations spill out from the backyard. Logan’s old cop buddies patrol the edges, keeping watch, moonlighting as bouncers. They’re making sure the desperate and the angry don’t steal our last few hours of peace. The first dance is beautifully simple. Mike has two left feet. Almost trips. He’s still tense. He looks at me. Looks away. Looks back. Something gnawing at him. The DJ takes over. No wedding reception classics. All house music and rock. It’s so Mike & Elana. I’m sincerely happy for them. The dancing starts and won’t stop until the sun explodes. 

Mike pulls me aside, out of earshot from his guests. Asks how I’m doing. Tells me I look good, better than ever. Well, not ever. But since. He asks if there are any hard feelings that he had asked his dad to be his Man of Honor. I tell him of course not, that I haven’t been much of a man or had much honor these past few years. He asks if I want an upper. His cousin from Connecticut is here and has a stash. He offers me a pill. “Let’s dance and hug our way into oblivion.” 

Nothing sounds better. 

Before I take it, I see that look again. A shadow passing behind his eyes. He’s straining to hold something back, and the effort is exhausting him. I glance at Elana, dancing with her flower maidens. When she spots us talking, she starts to rush towards us. Furious. Mike knows he only has seconds, and he doesn’t waste them. “Do you want to know?”

I feel the pill in my hand slip away as Elana shoves Mike back. I catch him. 

“You promised me you wouldn’t tell him,” Elana pleads.

“He’s my best friend–“

“Know what?” I ask. 

“Don’t.” Elana is about to cry. “You said you wouldn’t–“

“What’s going on?” I try to smile. A rock forms in my throat. My shoulders tense. Somehow, I know what Mike is going to say before he says it. 

"My dad wanted to give you this," Mike says. He presses a folded cocktail napkin into my hand. It feels heavy, heavier than paper should.

"What is it?"

"The driver," Mike says. "Dad found him. A few days after the crash. A CCTV camera caught the plate. The cars registered to a guy who matched your description.”

The world stops. He knew. They all knew. And they kept it from me. 

“Why didn’t–”

“The driver’s connected. A big shot developer. His friends in City Hall pressured the D.A. not to bring charges,” says Mike. "We didn't tell you because we didn't want you to…” 

“Do anything to the asshole that’d end up with you rotting in a cell," Elana says. "Logan wanted you to have a life, a chance to find a way to live again. We all do.” 

“But now..." Mike gestures to the sky, to the dying sun. "I figure you have a right to decide how you spend your time."

I look across the yard. Logan is standing by the kegs, watching me. He doesn't smile. He just gives a single, sharp nod. 

I unfold the napkin. An address in Jersey City. 

It wasn't fate. It was police work. And love. I feel pains seize my chest. My legs start to go. Lean against the back fence. Surrounded by love and dancing and joy. 

“Don’t leave,” Elana begs softly.

I should stay. Stay in this love. Pop a pill. Do all the drugs. Dance until the end with my chosen family. Instead, I pull them both into a hug. Hold them tight. Both of them are crying now. And so am I. “I’m so happy for you two.”

So I try to dance. I try to lose myself in the rhythm. But the napkin in my jacket pocket feels like a lead weight against my chest. I take it out. Look at the address. I know the street. I crumple the napkin and toss it away. The power grid flickers. The fairy-lights above blink. I close my eyes and see the headlights of the Audi. The driver got away with murder thanks to his connections. But now there’s no D.A. No City Hall. At the end of the world, nobody is untouchable. 

When I open my eyes, I see Mike and Elana, slow dancing, so lost in each other's love. 

I feel like a ghost haunting what should be the happiest day of their lives. 

I don't belong here. 

10 HOURS NOW

Logan is inside, trying cocaine for the first time with some of Elana’s old college friends when he sees me coming. The white coffee must have his cop senses going overdrive because he reads me like a picture book. Nods for me to follow him out front. More guests and strangers are arriving, all in high spirits. 

“Son,” he says, “you got a choice.”

Not really, I think.

“We must let go of our pain or be dragged by our emotions, failures, until the end,” he says, a little stiff. The sentiment is familiar. Then I realize where I’ve read it before. It was a line from one of Raye’s favorite books. 

“Where’d you read that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “just came to me.”

I’m not a spiritual man. Never felt the pull of God. But this must be a sign. Raye’s words speaking through Logan, to me. I try to rationalize the message, but I can’t. So I dismiss it. 

Logan warns me the guy might not even be there. Says it’ll be a “shitfight” to get over the bridge into Jersey City. Logan asks if I want him to go with me. Selfishly, yes, I want him to come. But he should be here. Today of all days. My pain isn’t his burden. I tell him to stay with his family. 

He shakes my hand one final time. Tells me that I’m not to hurt the guy. “Say your piece. Say whatever you gotta say to get closure. But don’t become someone you aren’t just to deal with what’s already been done.”

It’s coke-talk, but his fatherly warning is clear. As I turn to leave, he catches my elbow. He might be pushing 70, but he’s strong as an ox. “You can always come back, son. But only if you can look me in the eye and tell me that sonuvabitch is still breathing.” He lets go. “Luck to you, son.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach into Logan’s jacket. Take his handgun. He tries to stop me. We tussle. I shove him back. Run. Run. Run. Split through an alley. He chases. His buddies join. All fast for their age. But I have purpose now. I run west. Almost collide with a banker burning cash in a trash can. Run on. Pass a stray dog. 

Nobody stops me. 

Nobody can stop me.

When I feel like I’m far enough away, I walk a few blocks to catch my breath. Realize I’ve sweated through my suit. I strip off my jacket. Toss in a trash can. Why not leave it on the ground? It won’t matter soon anyway. 

On, I march. 

Logan’s gun sticking out of the back of my pants like I’m some kind of gangster. I’ve only shot a gun once, at Mike’s bucks party when we went to a shooting range outside of Albany. 

“Don’t worry,” Bob Marley urges from a bodega speaker. “Every little thing is going to be alright.”

The reggae echoes off the tenements, drifting toward Prospect Park. Inside, the trees shade a kumbaya orgy. Laughter and cries of ecstasy rise into the cooling air. It is a manic, desperate release. Nobody here is happy to be dying. They’re just happy because they refuse to die sad.

Raye and I met on Tinder. Our first date ended in that park. Our first kiss was by the Lincoln statue. I see the statue, and I feel her teeth grazing my lip. I remember breaking the kiss, feeling like Honest Abe was watching us with stern approval. I asked if we should go back to her place or mine. She said she wasn’t that kind of girl.

Two weeks later, I saw her apartment. A month later, my lease was up. So we moved in together. Only Mike & Elena thought we weren’t crazy for moving so fast. I’m so glad we did. 

By Lookout Hill, I cut around a foursome to get a view of the bridges. Logan was right. “Shitfight” doesn’t do the traffic jams justice. Most have abandoned their cars. Who wants to spend their last moments in traffic. Maybe I can steal a boat to get over the river. 

9 HOURS

I round a corner and the gun is in my hands before my mind realizes why. Pure instinct. Two jackasses in red flannels and designer torn jeans are carrying an unconscious girl who can’t be older than twenty into a van outside the Nitehawk Cinema. 

“P-Put her down!” I stutter.

They see the gun and freeze. “Buddy. This isn’t what it looks like.”

“I don’t give a shit,” I say. In my mind, I’m wondering if the safety is on or off. I can’t remember if the notch goes up or down. 

They lower the girl to the sidewalk and step back. As I check on her, one of them reaches behind their back, and suddenly he draws a gun and holds it like he knows how to use it. We shout for each other to put our weapons down. There’s a crowd now. Everyone urging for calm. Fuck. 

The girl stirs. Makeup running down her face. 

The jackass with the gun says they were taking her to a hospital. Said she had a seizure. Probably has a concussion. 

I ask the girl if that’s true. She says she’s never had a seizure before. 

The jackass with the gun does something I don’t expect. He lowers his gun. “She’s your problem now.”

They head back inside the cinema and the crowd disperses. 

The girl tries to stand. Falls immediately. I support her against the van. “You got somewhere you can go?”

She shakes her head. I tell her I’m headed for Jersey. Ask if she happens to own a boat. She starts to laugh, then realizes I’m being serious. She tells me she hates the ocean, but that she’s going to be fine.

Two blocks later, I realize she’s following me. She’s not trying to hide it. I say it’s probably best if she sits down but doesn’t try to sleep. She tells me her name is Dina. Asks if she can tag along. 

“I gotta cross the river.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I think.”

I ask what the hell happened in the cinema. She says she saw her boyfriend making out with her sister. “She’s never been kissed and said she had a crush on him. They asked for my permission. I didn’t want to say no, so I said sure. Then they started making out. Started doing more than just making out. Then I ran. Ran, or tried to run, but slipped and hit my head.” 

“And they didn’t try to help you?”

“I don’t think they noticed. There were a lot of people. Some guys tried to help me, said they were taking me to a hospital…”

I’d read the situation wrong. The “jackasses” were just being good Samaritans. Dina curses herself for not telling her boyfriend and sister how she felt. Calls herself a coward. 

On we walk. 

Cell service starts to go. I thought I knew this city well enough to get most anywhere. But I get lost. Dina thinks the river is to our right. I don’t know if I’d be able to make it back to my friends. 

8 

We reach the East River. The waterfront is a parking lot of desperate humanity. Families who refuse to be separated calling out for ferry workers who abandoned their posts hours ago. For these people, even though they’re together, where they are isn’t enough for them. These people want to be together, somewhere else. Raye always said it’s not where you are, it’s who you’re with. 

The water is black, reflecting the angry red pulse of the dying sun. We skirt the crowds and find a pier. The gate has been broken open. Not a soul or boat in sight. I’m fucked. 

Dina is lagging, nursing her head. "Why Jersey?" she asks. "Who’s there?" 

"The man who killed my wife." 

She stops. Looks at the gun tucked in my belt. She doesn’t judge, just nods. "Okay." 

She spots a Zodiac raft tied to a pier piling. Barely big enough for the two of us. The motor is gone, but there’s one paddle left. I scramble down. Struggle with the knot. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From rage. Or maybe it is fear. Maybe that’s what rage is. Fear masquerading as anger, eating me alive. 

Dina starts to hyperventilate. I ask if she’s okay and she says she has to be. She takes the knot. Wets it. Reduces the friction. The knot loosens. 

Adrift, we push off. Her eyes are closed. She’s hugging herself. The current is strong. The city skyline looms. A tombstone of shining glass and cold steel. It’s beautiful in the apocalypse. I paddle on. Arms burning. Wishing I hadn’t pushed-pushed-pushed so hard at the gym this morning. I think of the man behind the wheel of the Audi. What I’m going to do with him. I will my anger to transmute into energy, enough energy to right the greatest wrong in my life. It won’t be revenge, I think. It’ll be justice. 

Mid-river, the silence hits. The screaming from the shore fades. It’s just the slap of water against the rubber Zodiac. Dina asks about Raye. I tell her about the coffee breath. The way she slept. The small things. 

"She sounds nice," Dina says. "My boyfriend... ex-boyfriend... he would chew with his mouth open and it got so bad, I couldn’t eat in the same room as him. Why the hell did I even like him? Really? I can’t remember one good memory. I think I just wanted someone to love.” She laughs. I don’t know why, but so do I. It sounds foreign. To laugh at the end of the world. For a second, I forget the gun. Forget Raye. I hate myself for it. 

I don’t see the yacht until it’s too late. The zodiac clips the side. Gets flipped over in the wake. Dirty water fills my mouth and I struggle to stay afloat. The gun slips from my waistband, but I grab it. Dina and I try to flip the Zodiac, but we can’t. 

We swim the rest of the way, avoiding passing boats. Dina’s thrashing. I try to help her. Dina says I’d be able to swim more easily if I let go of the gun. She’s right. But I don’t let go. I can’t. 

5

We pull ourselves over the rock wall lining Jersey City. It’s quieter than New York. More suburban. More resigned. We walk on, soaked. I have the address memorized and a vague idea of where to go. Dina gets a Charlie Horse. She’s slowing down. Slowing me down. 

"Go on," she says. "I’m not sure I can make it to… Where are we going?” 

I think she must have a concussion. Just my luck. But leaving her feels wrong. She says she can keep going if we slow down. We move together like two shadows that have lost their owners. 

4

I don’t want to be alone. 

3 

Maybe it’s the fatigue, but time is speeding up. My feet are heavy and blistered. Most of those who came to the wedding were in sneakers. I chose formal dress shoes, because that’s what was expected. Right? To do what’s expected. 

We come across a happy-go-lucky man with salt-and-pepper hair in a park trying to steady a ladder under a tree. He smiles widely as he asks for our help to hold the ladder still on the uneven grassy ground. He climbs, and it’s only once he’s up the ladder that I realize he’s also holding a noose. 

As he ties the noose around the branch, he intones, “Every society in history has a doomsday theory; every generation wonders if they’ll be the last. We’re it. We’re the last.”

“Like, do you know that for sure?” asks Dina. 

“Look around, sugar. World is ending. Scientists say it’s ending. Can’t you feel it in your bones? Didn’t you have that dream?”

We leave the man and his noose. He kicks the ladder away. The rope goes taut. Dina tries to look back, but I clear my throat. She averts her eyes. Crack. Did I hear that right? It didn’t sound like a neck breaking. I glance back and see the man wailing on the ground. The branch he tied the noose to snapped. 

Dina asks if we should go back for him. I say we can’t stop what’s going to happen.  

Dina asks if we’re close. 

We are. 

I pause. Look back. The man is trying to right his ladder again under a different branch. I see that he’s surrounded by a dozen broken branches. Dina and I walk back. I have time, I think. 

The happy man sees us again. An air of failure in his forced smile. “Tried 12 times. Every damn branch broke.”

“Maybe it’s a sign?” asks Dina. 

“Or maybe lucky 13 will do the trick.”

He starts to ready for his next attempt and rights the ladder under another branch. I step in front of the ladder, cutting him off. I have to know something. “What’s your hurry? We’re all going to die anyway. What’s so bad about living for a moment longer?”

He traces the coarse rope with his calloused hands as if hoping to find a reason to live written on the noose. “Brother? I just... I don't want to be here for the noise. I want to go out quiet. But the world won't let me."

I ask him his name. Tell him there’s somewhere he can be happy, for the last few moments of existence. He asks if I’m sure it’s a place he can be happy. I say yes. A lie. The fuck do I know about happiness? But I know a little hope can go a long way. Maybe that therapy was worth it. To give this guy a little hope. 

Jerome follows us out of the park. He gently quips that Dina reminds him of his daughters. She asks if he’s her father. He says he doesn’t think so, but that he did some wild shit in his twenties. Dina doesn’t realize he’s trying to be funny. Says he grew up on the Bayou. Says he wished he’d taught his daughters how to drive a boat. Says he worked too much. Wishes he hadn’t. That he’d been a better father to his daughters. 

“All I had to do was be present. Be around more.” 

Dina asks where they are. He doesn’t know. Hasn’t for years. Hopes they’re with people who love and respect and treat them right. Says he prays for that every day on his hands and knees. The noise of his prayers, of not knowing if they’d be answered, had driven him to despair. 

Dina asks why he’s still carrying the noose. He says he can’t ever be without it. 

I get it. 

The Szechuan place is still serving. The scent of hot chili oil and garlic drifts into the street—a smell from a world that still has a future. The servers smile the way flight attendants smile during severe turbulence, swiping credit cards that will never be paid off. The customers wait with infinite patience, talking about rent control and summer plans, their voices blending into a meaningless, gentle noise, like rain on a tin roof. 

I recognize the frequency in their voices. 

It’s the static of absolute denial. I know the sound well. Denial was the armor I wore for months, pretending I was strong enough to be untouched by grief, God’s most paralyzing force of nature.  

At the intersection, parents and children in party hats watch in horror as two exhausted figures are locked in a slow-motion grapple. One is dressed in a full-body mascot suit of a Labubu, that mischievous art toy with tall ears and rows of serrated, shark-like teeth. Its opponent, a Bluey, the rectangular Australian cartoon dog, picks himself back up. Both of their costumes slick with city grime. On, they fight. 

"Are those...?" Dina starts, squinting through her concussion haze.

"Yeah," I say.

An old man in his Sunday Best leans against a telephone pole, smoking. He watches with the mild interest of someone waiting for a bus that will never arrive. 

The fight has no real energy left in it now. Just a sloppy tangle of synthetic fur and heavy breathing. The Labubu gets Bluey in a tired headlock. I can hear the person inside the Bluey suit wheezing. A wet, rattling sound echoing inside the giant foam head.

The Labubu lands a slow, lethargic punch on Bluey’s snout. It makes a soft whump noise, like hitting a sofa cushion. It doesn’t look like an eternal struggle of light versus dark. It just looks hot and uncomfortable. A very specific type of modern misery.

“Why are they fighting?” asks Dina. 

The man in his Sunday Best flicks his cigarette into a puddle and lights a fresh one immediately. “Does anything really matter if there’s no tomorrow?”

Bluey taps out feebly on the asphalt three times, but the Labubu doesn’t let go. It just rests its chin on Bluey’s head, staring blankly at us through its painted plastic eyes, as if daring us to intrude.

We walk on. It feels rude to stare. They could have been doing anything with their remaining time. Making love. Praying. Waiting in line for one last dumpling. 

Jerome asks what I do. How I know it’ll be okay. That there’s a place where happiness awaits. If I know something the rest of the world doesn’t. I dodge the question but tell him my job was to predict catastrophes. 

“But you didn’t see this one coming?”

“Nobody ever thinks their sun will explode.”

2 

Dina asks how she got here. The concussion must be getting worse. A mercy, perhaps, that she doesn’t remember the dream. Our fate. I ask if she knows where we are or why we’re here. She just tries to smile. I wonder if she’s the luckiest girl in the world. To not know the world is ending. The bliss of ignorance.  

The colonial house is the nicest on the block. Beige brick siding. The guard gate sits empty. No Audi in the winding, mustard-colored stone driveway. 

“Go do what you’ve gotta do,” she smiles. Sad. "Come back and tell us if it made you feel better." 

It’s so quiet now. I ask Jerome to make sure Dina doesn’t go to sleep. He’s looking at a telephone pole and wishing he had his ladder.  I leave Dina and Jerome on the grassy lawn and start up the driveway,  but pause when Dina says she remembers something. "My mom walked into the ocean. I watched from the window. I was twelve. I didn't call for help because I thought she was just swimming."

I wonder why she told me that. Why, of all things, would her mind remember nothing else but such a specific trauma? It felt cruel. Or, a warning, perhaps. She didn’t stop her mom from walking to her death, and look how it hurt her. I wish I didn’t have to see Raye’s killer. But I’ve come all this way. I don’t want to spend my last hours rationalizing my regret. I told myself I was going to do this. I have to be true to myself. Yes? Maybe? Dina lies down. I again ask Jerome to please, please keep an eye on her. He nods with the vigor of a soldier accepting the most important mission in the world. Until the world ends, she’s the daughter he wishes he had found. 

Hand on the gun. Safety off. The front door is unlocked. Why lock it now? I step inside. The smell of pot roast? No, burnt toast. I move to the living room. A balding man sits on the floor. Paunchy. He’s clutching a bottle of scotch. Two kids under ten lie on the couch. Drugged. Dead. A woman heaves breathless cries. The cries of someone who has lost everything, vocal cords too frayed to articulate any more pain. 

The man sees me. Sees the gun. He doesn't scream. He just exhales a long, shuddering breath. “Take anything you want,” he says. 

He thinks I’m a looter. 

He has no idea who I am. 

I ask what happened to the kids. 

“Didn’t want them to suffer,” he tries to explain. “Didn’t want them to burn.”

I ask him if he knows how much pain he’s caused me. His wife rasps, tells me to leave and not tell anyone what they’ve done. I tell her to be quiet. She pleads on, and on, and on for me to leave. I want to fire a warning shot. Maybe shoot the man in the leg. Show I’m not fucking around. 

I ask if he ever owned an Audi. He says he sold it a few months ago. I ask if he was in Brooklyn on that damned night. He can’t remember. Maybe. I tell him he was. Tell him what happened. How he took my Raye. 

The grieving know pain when they see it in the eyes of others. He may not remember, but he knows I’m not mistaken. “Do it," the man whispers, eying my gun. "Please."

This monster I had built in my mind, this demon, is just so small. And broken. He hates himself more than I ever could. "I didn't know,” he sobs. "I swear to God.” 

I remember him. So clearly. He was looking at his phone. Just for a second. Probably texting his wife or kids, saying he’d be home soon. That’s what Raye died for. He didn’t even realize he drifted from his lane. 

I raise the gun. Tell myself not to enjoy it. Tell myself a karmic debt is being balanced. We don’t have long now. Maybe a gutshot. Let him bleed out. 

I realize that if I kill him, I save him from the fire and certainty of death that will embrace us all and whole. Until all that is will be all that was. 

If I let him live, he burns with the rest of us.
He looks to his wife. 

To me. 

To the gun. 

Begs me to do what he can’t. 

So they can join their children in whatever comes next. 

The hate drains out, replaced by a terrible fatigue. Killing him won't bring Raye back. It won't stop the sun from shining. It just makes me a killer for the rest of my existence. Is it worth it? To let my hate, my pain, dictate the rest of my life? 

I think of Raye.

She saved spiders. 

1 HOUR UNTIL THE END

Dawn is near. 

We’ll burn soon. 

Dina lies on the lawn, staring up at the twilight sky. A stray cat has curled up by her side. Afraid, just like all of us, that the world will hurt it. She scoops up the cat. I ask if the cat has a name. 

“Doesn’t need a name,” says Dina. 

We silently walk away. 

Nobody asks what happened inside. 

We retrace our steps, passing the Jersey City intersection once more, where the Labubu and Bluey were fighting. We find their synthetic heads in the gutter. The two men sit on the curb. Exhausted. Depleted. Sharing a beer. Getting to know each other. Even they seem to have forgotten the origin of their grievance. 

Jerome and I offer Dina our hands as we wade through the water, out to an abandoned boat floating by the rock wall. The strength she’s showing, to retrace the same steps as her mother, walking into the ocean towards certain death, fills me with pride. We reach the boat. Enough gas left to get us where we need to go. I’ve never driven a boat, but I tell myself I’ll figure it out. I can’t. Jerome steps to the helm. 

The rotor spins. Water churns. We’re away. The cat is calm in Dina’s arms. I keep my eyes open for others on the water. We make it to the other side, but the waves batter us back and prevent us from docking. Jerome flings his noose around a pylon. Pulls us to shore. 

We don’t see a soul as I retrace my steps, back into Brooklyn.

The sun explodes. 

The fiery flare cascades through space. 

Mercury is the first to go. 

We turn the corner. It’s getting warmer, but it feels like a sunrise, not an ending. The Wedding at the End of the World has turned into a celebration the likes of which the city has never seen. Families and strangers from all walks of life fill the streets, drawn toward the music and laughter. Strangers mingle. Families reunite. Some are scared, but everyone is happy to be together.

I close my eyes. I’m back in the dream. The star field. I realize now that those pinpricks of light I saw in the dream weren’t just empty balls of burning gas. They were the light, other souls soaring towards the great illuminating source of all existence. 

I hear the voice in my mind. “A moment more?” 

“Yes,” I say aloud. “Please.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Dina asks. 

I feel a strong, familiar hand on my shoulder. Logan. He doesn’t need to ask. He sees the lightness in my hands and the peace in my eyes. He pulls me into a crushing hug. Then Mike sees me. Then Elana. They break their circle. They don't care where I went. Only that I’m back. 

“You came back,” Elana says, her voice cracking. “You came back to us.” 

For the first time in years, I’m back. 

So we dance. We dance as the star dies. Over and over. The sun lets loose a storm burst of charged particles through our corner of the cosmos. The solar flares rain down on the blue marble we call home. The home of every tragedy and joy, every kindness and sin, every heartbreak and love in the history of our species' blip of an existence.

We wait for the fire. We wait for the atmosphere to ignite. 

The world should have ended by now. 

Instead, the upper atmosphere screams. It shines as the particles from the flare collide with the magnetosphere, exploding in a cascade of rainbows. We’re treated to an aurora of impossible beauty. Great ribbons of neon green and violet thrashing against the dark. The crowd doesn't cower. We cheer. We clap. Some raise their plastic cups to the sky. Bring it on, they scream. Bring on the end.

But the light show fades. The colors drain away. Clouds form as the sky returns to a bruised, morning gray. We are still here.

I look up, past the fading aurora and clouds, and I realize the math of the miracle. I see a slim sliver of the moon. Nobody ever considered the moon. A simple celestial mechanic. The trajectory of the moon in relation to the flare. It threw itself in front of the bullet. Took the brunt of the damage. A cold, cratered shield protecting the fevered Earth. So we could dance on. 

The silence returns. Not the silence of death, but the stale silence of a party that has gone on too long. Phones start to ping. Around me, people weep. Not from relief, but from the crushing realization that their problems, hopes, sins, and kindnesses are as alive as they are. The promise of the end is gone. I feel a sickness in my gut, worse than any fear of dying. The nausea of continuity.

Now we have to figure out how to get through tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. I have to go to work. Get fired. Figure out how to pay my rent. I have to live with the fact that the man who killed Raye is alive in Jersey. We both have to exist with what we’ve done. 

Dina hugs me. Hands me the cat. It curls up in my arms. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta find my sister,” she remembers. “I think I owe her an apology, or she owes me one. Either way, I can’t hate her forever.”

Jerome asks if she’d like company. She offers the crook of her arm. Off, they walk. I hope I’ll see them again.

Mike and Elana find me holding the cat. We look at the sun, now peeking through clouds. She didn’t explode. It was just a flare. A warning, perhaps. That great eye shines down, so indifferent and yellow. Rays of light break through the clouds. Demanding that we continue through the darkness. Telling us nothing in life is harder than finding the courage required to keep existing.

I look to the cat asleep in my arms. No collar. My cat, now, I guess. 

Raye, wherever you are, I know you’re laughing. 

END