“My world is big enough,” I lie. I remember dreaming that. I remember how quickly the dream died. The sharpness of reality, a thousand shards piercing my skin my muscles my bones. I am Underhill. Underhill is me. It’s all there is and all that ever will be. To imagine a different life … I can’t. That glass is too fragile to look through, let alone handle.

I pull the book from his hands and set it aside. I tuck my arm over his chest and he wraps his arm around my back. We shift and snuggle until we are comfortable and close.

“Can I stay?” I ask. “Can I stay here with you?”

“Of course,” he answers, holding me tight. “Right now, you are the whole world.”

JENNICA

I wake in the morning and the apartment is quiet. I can feel that Kimberly’s not here. Even under the warmth of the blankets, a shiver runs over me. I slide toward the bathroom, start the shower. Tremble and wait, with my arms tucked close, for the steam to rise around me. Brush my teeth quick to get it out of the way. Get the bad taste out of my mouth.

When the world was not ending, we ate breakfast together. Cereal out of quick bowls, or pancakes if we had time to shake out the powder and stir water into it. Kimberly knows how to cook and I like watching. You’d think I’d know some things after working at the diner, but it’s different here. Curled in my pajamas on the kitchen stool, studying how her hands go. Caring how it turns out. Waiting for her to look over her shoulder and smile.

It’s hard to forget that she saved me. It’s hard to forget all those good mornings, the sound of our dishes clattering into the sink beside each other’s. She leaves for work a few minutes earlier than I do.

I would sit there, cupping the cooling dregs of my coffee and worrying about the day to come. She’d slide her feet into her shoes, slinging her purse strap across her chest. Then she’d walk toward me. Predictable as clockwork and soothing as a salve. She’d kiss my bare shoulder. “Be strong.”

STEVE CONNERS

“Babe—” I stretch my legs out under the desk, switch the phone to the other ear. Rock back and study the ceiling.

My wife’s voice is pulled taut. “You think he’s still going down there? Don’t you?”

“Can’t blame him. Like it or not, he feels attached to Underhill.”

“It’s been eight years since we lived there,” she says. “Why can’t he accept the way things are now?”

“Look, he’s just having a hard time. It’s, I mean, everything that’s gone on over there is enough to get anyone upset.”