Until one year passed. The planet finished its orbit of the sun and spun into the debris field left behind by the comet. The residue of Cain’s passage.

This June, the sky would fall. That’s what the newscasters said.

The meteor shower was not as long-lasting as August’s Perseids, but for several nights the sky flared and streaked and wheeled, the constellations seeming to rearrange themselves with ever-shifting tracks of light. At first hundreds and then thousands and then hundreds of thousands and finally an uncountable storm of meteors.

The ground shook. Windows shattered. Grids of electricity went dark. Satellites shredded. Radio signals scrambled. Dogs howled and people screamed their prayers. Many of the meteors dissolved in the atmosphere, but many struck the earth, sizzling into the ocean, splintering roofs, searing through ice, punching craters into fields and forests and mountainsides, like the seeds of the night.

It was then that everything changed.

1

Five Years Ago

The Night of the Meteor Shower

Jack was known as the fun dad. His wife said it like an accusation. He never dealt with the discipline or the tears. He never remembered that screen time had to be earned with chores or that baths were limited by a half-hour timer. Maybe Nora had a point when she said he only trafficked in laughs and cuddles. But maybe, he argued, that’s what made them a good team? They each brought a different skill set to the parenting game. She was the organizer, he was the improviser. His wife supervised hair- and teeth-brushing, while he told elaborate bedtime stories and checked under the box spring for monsters before kissing Mia on the forehead and saying good night. His wife made the grocery lists and cooked precisely from recipes, and he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen while blasting music and teaching their daughter about 1980s hair metal bands. “What’s extra annoying,” Nora once said, “is that you like to point out your successes. When you make her put the graham crackers back in the cupboard or change out the toilet-paper roll, you proudly mention it to me. Like you deserve some kind of trophy.”

Maybe he deserved a small trophy—or at least a high five and a “Good job”—for today. Because there were no water parks or movie theaters in store for them. This was a full-on dadventure. It was four a.m., and in the predawn gloom, he and his daughter were about to tromp around in the woods hunting for mushrooms.

Jack didn’t have a choice. His research required it. And his wife, a detective, had been gone all night working a case. He could either hire a babysitter—and what babysitter would even answer a call at this hour?—or drag Mia along with him. But he wasn’t complaining. And neither was his daughter. They were happy for the challenge.