I ask her what to do. I know I have to go, today, right now; my parents might never find me, and I have nowhere else to go. By the time I’m a Wrinkly there won’t be a Swan to die on. No Shoals at all. Just ex-ice-cap water and wars in the Bad Place.

New York was awful when I lived there before, and it’ll only be more expensive, meaner, with fewer jobs for someone like me—no skills, no diploma. I don’t even think I have enough ID to enroll in school if I wanted to. It’ll probably smell even worse in summer. And this summer’s really fucking hot. Anyway, Manhattan’s an island, too. Not a safe bet long-term. Hell, maybe I should move to Detroit or Columbus. The Midwest could be the east coast by the time I’m a Swan. Should I move there and get ahead of the wave? Stake my claim in a safe space on high ground in a little place with a well? Is it too soon to hide out already? There’s so much more of the world to see. Will it be scary to be back? Will it have changed too much for me to know how to act? Or maybe it will have been me who changed too much.

Clack, bleep, suck, drop.

What is it like, having the world change so much? From when you were born, I mean. Was it just too much of a leap between the world you first became aware of and the world you were in when your brain stopped firing and popping the way it’s supposed to? Maybe it’s a kind of exhaustion, so tired you can’t think straight, and soon you can’t do anything—eat, hold your head up, keep your eyes open. I feel so exhausted I could sleep for a hundred years. But it would be just my luck that I’d wake up and everything would be gone. I’d wake up drowning.

Still, I just want to rest. Without thinking or dreaming. Whatever you’re doing, lying in this bed strapped to tubes with tape and needles, it doesn’t look restful. If I could have it my way, I would be dead for a week. All I want is a break from existing, something deeper than sleep.

Clack, bleep, suck, drop.