Hannah has put her head on Peter’s shoulder. The weather doesn’t matter. The location is of no consequence, she is in that perfect state that humans crave their entire lives, that they try to create with drugs, money, and self-mutilation and rarely find. If Hannah knew she could expect to experience this state maybe six or seven times during her stay on earth, perhaps she would never move again and never sleep again just to savor it. But she doesn’t know. Hannah sits next to Peter on the stairs in front of the hall, from which the news quietly echoes. I’ll never want anything else, thinks Hannah in complete ignorance of the workings of hormones. Peter doesn’t think any such thing; he’s a man, he’s peculiar, he’s excited and happy. He could stay sitting like this forever. Sensing the warmth of Hannah’s body on his. How soft she feels, even while looking so bony and angular. How soft he feels, thinks Hannah, wishing to sit in Peter’s body; there must be a warm spot in there, and he could carry her through the dampness.

Right. And so on. In love.

The TV is on. The results of the election are running in an endless loop.

The Online Party has won with 80 percent of the votes. An avatar will be the new prime minister. The populace has given their heart to a young, dynamic high performer.

Speaking of which.

Thome’s father

Clutches at his heart.

His comrades already seem to be dead. Numbly they sit in the scuffed brocade-upholstered chairs, a crystal glass or two has landed on the floor. The end of the world has surprised everyone. As if a beloved dog had as a result of its own stupidity strayed into a wolf trap. Thome’s father stands up. His legs are unstable, his stride awkward, the helicopter stands at the ready. It is supposed to shuttle Thome’s father to the victory celebration in London. Now. They still fly over the noble Highlands back to London. Only with defeat—

After touching down, Thome’s father walks through Oxford Street, dazed. The riffraff is out and about. The idiots who voted in a bot as prime minister. Stupidity drips like spit from their faces. They follow signals. They follow the desire for stimulating conditions. Shopping. It’s proved its worth. It was even easier than faith. That flexible amphibian, capitalism, has adapted very quickly to the new desires of the population. There are few expensive products for the class of winners and tons of cheap junk produced in the loser countries of North Africa, Eastern Europe, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and the Rust Belt states of North America. Places where the cost of labor is still cheaper than machines.

Thome’s father stops briefly, dull pain in his temples again.

So, where were we?—Oh, right, some subsets of the population have all but disappeared. Homeless children, for instance.