After a while, the flat feels too hot, a sickly sweet smell that mixes with the odor of damp blankets drying by the fire, and I can barely handle it anymore. I was able to haul a mattress into the room and get them onto it and they’re both deep asleep, her arm tucked in his.

I drag myself up to the roof, welcoming the freezing air that refreshes my lungs. The night’s deep and clear, the moon not yet risen to hide the scattering of stars beating a rhythm of light from millions of years ago.

There are fewer survivors’ fires burning on roofs around the City. I try not to think about what this means and light my own small fire, then pull a tub of snow near. As it melts I run my hands over the blankets and quilts I brought to wash, most of the seams frayed and so worn they fall apart in my fingers. I just sit there staring at the scraps, wondering if it’s worth trying to rework them into another quilt. Wondering if any of this will even matter in a few days.

Is this what it was like in all those other cities and towns when the Return hit? All the half-finished products of people’s lives: laundry still hanging on someone’s line, a half-read book tucked into the corner of an old chair, a letter partially written or a painting almost but not quite finished.

I think back to my sister asking me what I’d do if I knew this was the end. I close my eyes and remember the feel of Catcher’s lips against mine. That instant when he gave in and let himself fall into me.

I want that moment again. Over and over. I want that to be my life.

I stare at the picture I drew of Catcher on the shed wall, mostly washed away now from the wind and snow. There are still some parts left—the outline of a flower, a hand clutching a bunch of balloons that have all run together.

Pulling a charred stick from the fire, I draw in some of the faded pieces, tracing the edge of a face here, mending the fence there. I start to outline the mass of balloons, to give each one shape again, when I pause.

The charcoal at the end of my stick crumbles under the pressure of my hand, leaving a long dark smudge. If only we could fly, I think.

It seems way too stupid to be a possibility, but even so, I walk back to the fire and the blankets scattered about, running the fabrics through my hands. When I find one with a tight weave that isn’t too heavy, I rip apart the seams until I have a decent-sized square.