Everybody tenses up. People shift out of his way, but they can’t get far. We’re trapped so closely that if there’s a fight, we’re all going down. It’d be like being caught in a blender. No matter what you do, you can’t help but get sucked in.

As if the tension isn’t thick enough, the alarm goes off again, scraping our nerves.

You’d think that if there was a real gang member in the group, everyone else would back off. But you’d be wrong.

The valley isn’t just filled with mild-mannered, smart engineers. According to my dad, who was once a mild-mannered engineer before he became the most educated convenience store clerk around, the valley is peppered with high-risk, high-octane CEOs and venture capitalists with mega-alpha personalities. Movers and shakers. Entrepreneurs on speed. The kind that the President of the United States came to visit for dinner.

Now, we live in a world where those Ivy-league-educated mega-alphas are jammed up behind bars with the likes of street-schooled gang members like Mr. Tattoo, arguing over who has the right to smoke. Welcome to the World After.

Mr. Alpha is a big, blond, thirty-something guy who probably worked out regularly back when gyms were worth visiting. I’ll bet he has a charming smile when he wants, but right now, he looks like his nerves have been stretched about a foot farther than they can go, and the only thing keeping him from breaking is his sheer willpower.

“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” says Alpha. “Look, we all need to work together to survive this.” He grinds out the words between his teeth, clearly trying to keep things cool.

“So I should put out my goddamn smoke for you? Piss off. No one’s allergic to smoke. They just don’t like it.” Tattoo takes a deep drag off his cigarette.

The third smoker quietly stubs out his cigarette, looking like he hopes no one notices him.

“Put the cigarette out!” There’s real command in Alpha’s voice that can be heard even over the shrieking alarm. This is a guy who’s used to being heard. A guy who used to matter.

Tattoo flicks his still-glowing stub at Alpha. For a moment, everyone relaxes. But then Tattoo pulls out a fresh cigarette and lights it.

The alarm shuts off but the plunge into silence feels worse.

Alpha’s face and neck turn a bright red. He shoves the other guy, looking like he doesn’t care if he gets beat to a twitching pulp. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is an easier out for him than what the angels have in store for us.

The problem is, he’s making that decision for the rest of us too. A fight in a cell the size of a coffin means a whole lot of injuries for everyone at a time when we can’t afford to have any.