I approached the problem, as ever, with a cold logic. Surely, I reasoned, it wouldn’t be possible for Phineas to have touched so many lives if we had failed him? Was this not empirical evidence of our success? But Simone simply couldn’t see it. She believed that she had failed him. That she would continue to fail him.

In her grief she built a monument to him. A grand marble structure that reflected the world all around. And with each passing day it grew taller, more perfect in her mind. But as its beauty increased so too did the nature and severity of her sin, until it became a tower that she could never look away from. She saw it looming constantly on the horizon. A reminder not of the boy she had loved, but of her mistake.

XXVII

I drive to work but find the road blocked by wreckage. There are pieces of glass and plastic strewn across four lanes. People have abandoned their vehicles to stand on the asphalt, their hair whipping faintly in the breeze.

Even in the early morning the heat is punishing. I watch the city shimmering ahead of me, the light waves dancing as they pass through the air. The longer I sit the more I feel drowsiness settling upon me, freeing me from the burden of consequence.

I kill the engine and wait for the sound of sirens but the road is still deathly silent over half an hour later. A nervous energy begins to grip me. I think of the boy on the highway. The stationary traffic, the great mass of bodies surging forward over the hoods of cars. The scene feels so eerily familiar that I abandon any hope of making it into work and turn round, crossing the grass median to head back the way I came.

I leave the freeway and opt instead for a more scenic route. Half of the shopfronts I pass have their shutters drawn, the rest are in the process of closing. People stand in the street arguing over groceries. Children hold cardboard signs offering fair rates on bottled water and canned goods. Homeowners nail wooden boards across their windows as if preparing for an approaching storm.

I drive largely unimpeded, all of the traffic heading out over the water in the opposite direction. I can see the sun shimmering across the top of a long convoy of cars. The families I pass sit and fan themselves in the heat, their roof racks full with camping supplies and hunting equipment, the tools necessary for a new type of survival.

When I get home Simone is working in the vegetable garden. She watches me approach without emotion. I bend and kiss her forehead.

‘People are uneasy in the city,’ I say. ‘They think it’ll be here soon.’

I stand and lean against the greenhouse, fanning myself. I notice the flowers inside are all long dead, the soil cracked and broken. At the back of my eye socket I feel a migraine beginning to stir, waking itself from some dormant phase. ‘My God is it hot,’ I say.