My name is Atric, and I was born January 28^th, 1986, almost a month early. The doctors later told my mother that I should have died, perhaps taking her along with me. My father barely noticed. The local residents, specifically my parent’s closest friends, were oblivious to my arrival. They were glued to their television sets. Something called Challenger had blown up and killed seven people: a tragedy distracted them from a miracle. I could not have known it yet, but I would eventually develop an intense dislike for my fellow humans.

I grew up in a relatively small town that had zero libraries and two movie theaters. For most of my adolescence, it never really occurred to me that this might be a problem. I was always more interested in the latest two-hour feature that I could passively absorb than hours of laborious reading. It was a town like so many others, one that favored athletics over academics. I was not an athlete. Public schooling did little to help integrate me into society, especially in such a suffocating environment. Opinions were provided. I felt detached from most people and subdivided into arbitrary social groups. The town was full of ignorance; in fact, it seemed to overflow with it. I was a victim of muted erudition. Before I even knew what to call it, anti-intellectualism pervaded my life.

Naturally, I felt it was necessary to play the part silently assigned to me. But, the rules were hard for me to figure out. Selfishness was hypocritically treated as taboo. It was more important to fake confidence than to actually have it. And, you couldn’t disagree without offending. It was a maddening society. Too often, I would fall prey to societal blunders. In the words of my parent’s generation, I was not the “smoothest” of characters.

Nonetheless, I made it through high school, and attempted college for a few years, earning a degree or two in the process. This should have been a good time for me. I was allowed to keep to myself, which worked out nicely. However, I felt pressured into the degree I was rapidly approaching and found myself crippled with apathy. Perhaps worst of all, I attended graduate school at a second college, and that’s where most of my problems resurfaced. I spoke at many lectures, sometimes to rooms full of doctors. On at least three occasions, my “colleagues” griped me off stage. I tried to meet with those who complained the loudest. I sincerely wanted to figure out what I was doing wrong, but they were rarely helpful.

One fine spring day, I was in the middle of giving a presentation when suddenly a man in the audience stood up, throwing several pieces of paper into the air. They were 8 x 11, white, and wrapped in red binder. I immediately recognized what he had thrown in the air: my report . . . the one I was then reading.

“I have no doubt the Good Lord could decipher this rubbish,” the man in the cheap beige suit exclaimed, “but I am at a complete loss!”

I didn’t know how I was supposed to react. I’d never been to a conference where people actually interrupted the speaker. And, here it was, happening to me. I thought surely I wouldn’t be the only one offended by this outburst. Then I realized people were agreeing with him. No one actually said it, but the air was viscous with criticism. I felt betrayed. They had all turned on me.

I had what literary types call an epiphany. I’d had enough. It wasn’t that particular incident, or even that particular schmo that did it. There were too many things about people in general that bothered me. They were too mean, too loud, too greedy, too this, too that . . . always had been. I had put up with it for two-and-a-half decades, and finally I just could not take it anymore. I could no longer function according to the norms of society. People were just too self-absorbed and closed-minded. I walked out of the auditorium. I didn’t even grab my briefcase, and left with my words still projected on the auditorium’s large screen: “Introduction to Superimposition.” I just left. It was time to leave the world I knew. I needed to find myself without the guidance of society.

II. Evening Star

That was in the spring of 2013. I was then the spirited age of twenty-seven and in a time of personal enlightenment. Reluctantly but cleanly, I severed ties with lifelong companions, trying to ensure them that it was humanity in general that I could no longer tolerate. I sold everything I could on the Internet and gave the rest to whoever would take it. I used the money to purchase a remote plot of forestland in upstate New York. I lived without extensive human contact for more than a decade, and as far as I was concerned, it was time well spent.

One of the reasons I chose the section of land that I did was that it came with a cabin, complete with an underground well. Another reason I chose it, and the selling point as far as I was concerned, was how secluded it was. The nearest town, Tahawus, was about 13 miles to the west. Out this far, I rarely had to deal with people. But, on nights when the clouds hung low, the sky to the west would glow a dark salmon color. It was the reflected light of humanity. I wasn’t able to remain as isolated as I hoped to be. Even there, deep in the forest, the air was saturated with humans.

In the beginning, I wasn’t very self-sufficient, and sometimes hunger would force me to make the arduous trip to Tahawus. It was only a few miles away, but after I sold my truck, my legs were my only means of transportation. Nevertheless, it was a small and peaceful town, so I really didn’t mind the occasional outing.

The cabin and surrounding area required some work, but I quickly came to call it home. I felt comfortable with my isolation. Once I was released of the strains of society’s influence, I quickly fell into my element. I embraced my ancestral lifestyle: hunting, eating, building, and just living. Though my species has always been a social species, it just felt so natural to live essentially the same life that my ancestors had for thousands of years, without the trappings of civilization.

Sometimes I would encounter the random straggler, lost or just hiking through. It amazed me how many hikers never looked up to the stars. I would try to show them the way by looking at the constellations, but I doubt any of them ever really listened. Most complained that you couldn’t see the stars because of the trees. I eventually concluded that most people didn’t know the night sky as intimately as I did. If anyone asked for help they were likely to get it. I didn’t want to be responsible for them, and besides, I was trying to get them out of my hair.

High overhead, a “star” would slowly streak across the sky, and I would imagine it was a satellite, or maybe even a space station. Their mere existence was an irritation to me. They were silent intrusions into my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nonetheless, there was something different, almost inspiring, about the objects in the sky. I tried not to let these incidences affect me, but sometimes they made me feel, if only for a moment, inexplicably forlorn. I tried to force such sentimentality from my mind. “Don’t be so damned foolish,” I would tell myself. “Those people never wanted you anyway.”

After a few years, I finally mastered providing myself with food. I learned how to keep myself clean and healthy, make tools and weapons, and make simple clothing out of skins. I built numerous add-ons to the cabin, repaired things as they broke, and learned the hard way how to preserve food. I learned how to hunt without using a gun, and even overcame an aversion to skinning animals with my bare hands. I taught myself how to fish without fishing poles, which consisted mostly of standing for long periods of time in cold water and leaping at nearby fish. Though a few winters tested my limits, I was eventually able to provide nutrition for myself year-round. Making a fire became an art for me, and I learned the hard way how to properly cook my food. It went this way for a year, then two, then five, and suddenly a decade had come and gone. I finally found myself once I did away with humanity.

As I was approaching my second decade of seclusion, I noticed something odd. Right before sunrise and right after sunset I couldn’t help but notice the numerous satellites quietly sailing overhead. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. For a while, I even convinced myself that they were just a product of what I often thought of as the inexorable exploitation of Mother Earth. I lied to myself, really. The fact was, seeing them made me feel a bit of pride for my species.

Their mere presence didn’t really bother me at first. But then their numbers began to grow. I simply assumed that this was just some phase my ex-neighbors were going through. They seemed to do that from time to time. It turned out, however, that this smattering of lights was merely the beginning. Several months later, there were literally hundreds of them floating overhead each night. The sky was growing alive with artificial stars.

Initially, I could only see them when the sun was near the horizon. Their size and numbers grew, and soon they could be seen day and night. They were impossible to ignore, and I found myself growing bitter again. I felt as though they were silently mocking me. They were like insects I could never swat, taunting me as they soared far beyond my reach. There was a community growing overhead, as regular a sight as the sun and the moon. I was unable to drive them from my mind. At night, as the buildup increased, I found myself more often inside. I remember one day I grew so angry that I went inside and did not look to the sky for three whole nights. I was looking less and less to the sky, a pastime I was once very fond of. Something I guessed I would have to get used to.

For a couple years, I watched helplessly as the buildup reached an astonishing peak. They glowed eerily at night and shone brightly during the day. There were more and more large objects, but never any large enough to tell what they were. Eventually there were tens of thousands of objects of all sizes. So many of them, in fact, that a ring developed: a ring of humanity, encircling the planet.

I caught myself, on too many occasions, thinking about the ring of silvery-white “stars.” I thought about the collections of people possibly gathering inside those ships. Were people in there? Sometimes my paranoia would get the better of me. Could they see me? How many people were flying over my head every day? It was amazing and terrifying at the same time. But, I could not shake the idea that it had to do with the greed of humanity. Maybe Microsoft was getting into the space station business. I wanted to make them go away. I could not escape them, no matter how much I wished it. But then, all of a sudden, my wishes were answered.

It seemed to happen almost overnight, though it actually took a couple weeks. I don’t know how long it had been before I noticed, but when I finally did, it was undeniable. The lights in the sky were beginning to disappear. The sky was beginning to grow dark again. Finally, after a fraction of the time it took for the ring of lights to appear, it was gone. The only lights left in the sky were the fixed, ever-present background of familiar constellations. I actually remember thinking, “Good riddance.” I would be left alone in peace. Coincidentally, that night I had a strange dream. I felt like I was a child again, caught in the bottom of a dark well and left to die.

I found solace (or so I thought) when the skies finally grew dark again. No longer reminded of my greedy cousins on a daily basis, I found myself going outside more. I felt more at ease with myself, but something was wrong. I could feel it. The cloudy skies, normally aglow with the lights of humanity, were becoming abnormally dark. I felt a pang of curiosity. What had all that activity in the sky been? Why had it disappeared? Why did the skies seem darker than ever? It was not the absence of the lights in the sky that bothered me, but the sudden darkness from the ground.

These questions began to haunt me. While I still harbored an overwhelming distaste for society, I felt an inexplicable urge to find out what was going on. I was all but consumed with this desire before I finally resolved to travel away from my land to find out. I had to know.

III. Night Falls

May 16, 2037 @ 6:34pm – I’ve made it to Tahawus, and it’s completely abandoned. Apparently, it has been that way for a while because plant and animal life seem to have taken the place over. The people who lived here for so long are nowhere to be seen. The remains of businesses and homes give the small town an eerily familiar ghost town appearance.

At one point a lean black and white dog came up to me, sniffed my leg, and barked. He seemed friendly enough. I asked the dog where everyone went, but it just tilted its head and barked again, then darted away from me. I wonder how many pets are on the loose now.

What if everyone in the world no longer cared for their pets? The emptiness of this place is starting to fill my head with horrible thoughts. Is everyone gone or dead? Perhaps it was some kind of plague or war that claimed the life of all these people. It would not surprise me in the least if it were the latter.

I walked around Tahawus for two full days, searching for answers.

May 17, 2037 @ 4:05pm – I found a handful of dead people while sifting through the town today. They all seemed to be the victims of accidents. In my life, I have seen very few dead people with my own eyes, and I think I saw more today than all those times combined. Honestly, I try not to think too hard about what might have caused their particular deaths and continue to look on for answers.

It didn’t take long to figure out why the skies have grown dark. I walked all around the town and there is no electricity that I can find. The local power plant isn’t even running. It’s cold, dark and silent now, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to start it up again. Not that it really matters. I don’t think anyone is here to use it. Actually, I half expected to see it blown up or destroyed somehow.

Every time I saw a newspaper, I scanned the headlines for some clue. The most recent newspapers were, according to my best calculations, more than two years old. Had it been so long? My ignorance of current and not-so-current events made reading the articles almost futile. Clearly, the readers knew what “the inevitable event” was and what the “final solution” would be, but mere catch phrases and sparse details told me tantalizingly little. It actually only succeeded in leaving me nervous and confused.

May 17, 2037 @ 10:36pm – Maybe a new government has taken over and assimilated its entire people. Or, maybe there are no more governments now because all hell broke loose and–no, no . . . that’s just crazy talk. It can’t be that bad. But, I have to be ready for anything. I have to be ready for the worst. And, I can’t let such foolish thoughts fill my head. I haven’t talked to anyone, so I don’t really know what has happened. And, what happens if I see someone else? Will they hurt me? I will try to be stealthier when I move around. Hopefully, I will not run into trouble. Hopefully.

Clearly not finding any answers in Tahawus, I resolved to travel south to the larger cities. I was sure I could find someone who could answer a few of my numerous questions.

May 18, 2037 @ 8:41pm – I decided to go south for as long as it takes. I have to see if there is anyone left. But, so far, there is no one. I made it all the way to Aiden Lair before I came upon another human. But, they were dead. It looks like animals or something killed them. I don’t really want to know.

There were abandoned cars and trucks all over the place. Most were rusted husks, destined to rust to pieces on the sides of the roads. I hitched rides in any car I could get to run. I drove when the vehicles and the roads permitted me, and walked when I had no other choice. Minvera, the hometown of my high school sweetheart, looked as though it had burned uninhibited for days. There just wasn’t anyone around to put it out. For the first time since in years, I felt something akin to empathy, a feeling too deeply ingrained in the human psyche to ignore.

May 20, 2037 @ 5:01pm – The air seems chilly, though it should be warm by now. I continue south, hopefully to find more answers. There is something unsettling about moving from town to town only to find death and destruction wherever I go. Sometimes I feel like people are hiding in the shadows, watching me. And still, I haven’t seen a soul.

I traveled through a scorched Igerna, a wasted Pottersville, a desolate Starbuckville, an empty South Horicon, and Riverbank, which seemed to be gone . . . literally. I began to doubt that I would ever find another person, alive anyway. Then, as I was walking slowly down what appeared to the main street of Warrensburg, I saw (or rather, heard) a man moving through the streets ahead.

It was the first living human I had seen in possibly a decade. He was stumbling across the street carrying a long staff in one hand and what I could only guess to be a bottle of alcohol in the other. I moved quietly closer to him, hiding amongst the trash and dead cars. His hair was matted and his clothes were tattered, but he seemed healthy nonetheless. His skin, though it clearly needed a good scrubbing, seemed to glow, pink and warm. I could see the life, the vitality in him; a stark contrast to the cold, static ruins around us. I watched him for a while, careful to not reveal myself just yet. He never seemed to notice me, though I saw him look my direction twice. His eyes were glazed over, giving them a starry glint.

“Theys ah take-uh you-uh way!” he yelled repeatedly, almost singing it. So, someone else had lived through all this, whatever it was. I suddenly felt a twinge of optimism. I thought if I survived whatever happened and he survived, then surely there’ll be others.

I watched the guy stumble around for a while. At one point, he picked up a small dead rodent and sniffed it; sniffed it long and hard. I never approached him.

May 30, 2037 @ 2:46pm – I’m making my way through all the big cities and small towns, but still haven’t seen anyone since the ratsniffer in Warrensburg. Not in Lake George, nor West Glens Falls, nor Yaddo, nor Eddy Corners, nor throughout all of Albany. I just keep walking, or riding the occasional vehicle. Cars are increasingly unreliable because gas is hard to come by. There are these new types of cars, apparently electric, that I can do nothing with. A bit of irony for my journey, I suppose. I’m sure they got to use their new cars for a couple years before electricity went out-of-style, so to speak.

I passed through Kingston. I went through Newburg and New City, but there was nothing new about these places. I saw buildings falling apart with neglect. Homes, schools, business, and churches all seemed to crumble slowly. It was strange to see these structures in such disarray. They were once so cared for. These towns were just hollow, decaying skeletons of their previous versions. Perfectly manicured lawns, upright fences, streetlights that always blinked . . . all of these things were going or gone. I once despised these people, these self-righteous monsters. Nevertheless, an uneasy feeling began creeping into my mind. I actually began to feel concerned.

June 3, 2037 @ 12:05pm – I had to take shelter from a storm for most of the day today. Rivers are starting to claim their rightful place. There have been three major breaks in the highway that were caused by the rushing water. It rained so much that I was stuck between breaks in the highway, so I have had plenty of time to reflect on the past few days, not that I particularly wanted to. What will happen if the only people left are like that weirdo in Warrensburg? He seemed healthy, physically, but he was just too . . . well, nutty. Maybe crazy people are the future. If so, maybe then I’ll feel vindicated for leaving these people. No, no. I can’t be so parochial. I must keep looking.

I finally reached the outskirts of New York City. I could not believe my eyes. The country fell far behind me as I entered what had once been the world’s most famous city. I walked only on pavement, surrounded only by buildings. It was the surface of the planet, reconstructed to fit the needs of the humans. I passed by Yonkers, through Englewood, and started crossing the George Washington Bridge. Halfway across, I stopped and looked south out over the Hudson River. The skylines were barely recognizable. There were so many buildings I had never seen, and so many familiar ones destroyed long before. It was haunting to look upon the empty buildings that lined the river. To my right was New Jersey, and to my left, Manhattan . . . neither city looked like I remembered. Had anyone else seen it like this? For a while, I considered that I might be the only one left to see it.

June 8, 2037 @ 3:15pm – It seems colder now, even though it is June. I hope it doesn’t snow while I’m down here. Harlem looks like it was bombed. The buildings are leveled clear to Melrose across the river. I can see it. Melrose. From here . . . in Harlem. There used to be blocks of buildings here, now it’s a giant, charred wasteland. No one to stop it burning, to stop what happened. Everywhere I go, the air is full of the smell of burning plastic. At least, I think it’s plastic.

IV. Dawn of Humanity

I made my way through northern Manhattan. The Empire State Building was still standing, though the lobby looked like it had seen a fire or two. I continued south until I came upon a jungle. Well, it once was Central Park, but that day it looked more like a jungle. The traditionally well-groomed area was besieged with plant life. I sat down in the middle of one of the fields. A large open area stretched out in front of me, providing a nice green carpet in front of the crippled Manhattan skyline. I asked myself, how could there not be one living person in all of New York City? It seemed I was truly alone.

It was then that my emotions got the better of me, and I began to weep uncontrollably. I just sat back on the grass and let my sadness pour out of me. I was not crying for my missing friends and family, but rather, for myself. I’d made a pact with myself to remove myself from humanity. However, it seems that absence really does make my heart grow fonder, even for a cynical old bastard like me.

I laid there for several minutes, feeling the coolness of the air and the warmth of sun on my skin. Sniffling, I slid my hands off my face, and looked to the sky. I was noticing how cloudy it seemed to be getting when suddenly I heard a dog barking.

I sat up on my elbows. For a moment, I thought it was just my imagination, but then I saw it. Several yards away from me, an energetic golden retriever suddenly appeared from behind a line of trees. A bright pink Frisbee sailed over its head, and it expertly snatched it out of the air.

“Good boy!” a woman yelled, her voice echoing through the empty park.

A chill gripped me, freezing me in place. A woman ran up to the long haired dog as it returned the Frisbee. She knelt down only a few yards from me and rubbed the dog’s head, praising it for the catch. I did not know why, but it frightened me when I saw her. She was the first woman I had seen in years, and her strength was visible even from this far away. She wore a full-bodied, black outfit that reminded me of the kind paramedics used to wear. She was short, and pleasantly proportioned. Her hair was dark brown, cut short everywhere except on top. Her face was oval, and (it is certainly worth mentioning) quite lovely. Her skin seemed to glow in the bright sunlight. And her lips. Her lips were–

Say something to her! Reason intervened, before she sees you and panics!

I thought about what might happen if she caught me watching her. I feared she might think I was as crazy as the ratsniffer I saw in Warrensburg. Plus, I wasn’t even sure that I could trust her yet, much less vice versa. Hell, I thought, I don’t even know how to talk to her. I was afraid to approach her, but if I did not, I might never know what happened to everyone. Besides, I reckoned with myself, she seemed to like animals.

As I stood up, I sucked in a breath and tried calling to her, but as I did my voice cracked badly. My awkward shriek clearly startled her. She clutched the pink saucer to her chest. Oh, damn, I thought. It occurred to me at that moment I had not used my voice much in the past few years, much less yelled like that. I cleared my throat, regrouped, and called to her again. I was so nervous and excited; I don’t even remember what it was I said to her. The dog moved quickly to her side as she turned to face me, crouching slightly. I walked slowly towards her with my hands extended in front of me. I wanted to assure her I meant her no harm.

 “Please don’t be afraid,” I said. “I only want to ask you a few questions.”

I wasn’t sure it was working, but she seemed to relax a bit. Her brown eyes surveyed me heavily. She was in an eerie survival mode, which made me nervous. She and the dog were a beautiful sight. They appeared so warm and fluid in front of the static, gray skyline. I continued to walk closer to them. I eventually got so close to her, she took a step back and pulled some kind of device off her hip. It was small, but probably a weapon of some kind. She did not appear to be pointing it at me, but her eyes made it clear she held something threatening. I had no idea what it was. I still don’t know.

“Don’t be stupid,” she growled.

“I’m sorry if I sound strange,” I pleaded, “But I haven’t had a lot of opportunity for conversation.”

“Yeah, I bet,” she said, relaxing a degree.

“My name is Atric,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “What’s yours?” She seemed a little skeptical.

“Dawn,” she finally answered, “What did you say you wanted? To ask me something?”

“Yes, I want to ask you what happened.”

“What happened?”

“To everybody.”

“Everybody? What everybody?”

“I don’t know,” I said, somewhat exasperated. That seemed to set her a little on edge, so I tried to relax a little. I continued as calmly as possible, “I’m not crazy. At least, I don’t think I am. But I’ve had very little contact with people in a long time, and that’s why I needed to talk to you.” She cocked an eyebrow, but seemed to relax again a little.

“Well, look,” she said. “Don’t get any bright ideas, okay? We are a rare breed, and I’ll defend myself if I am forced to.”

“Rare breed?” I asked innocently.

“Are you listening to me?” she said, growing agitated.

“Wha . . . ?” I stammered, “Oh yes, yes.” I had to reason with her. “Look I’m sorry if I seem . . . out if it. I haven’t had contact with anyone in several years, and I only came here to find out what happened.” I eased into a conversational distance from her as slowly and deliberately as I could. She did not seem to mind. “I swear I don’t want to hurt you. You’re the second person I’ve seen in years, and the other guy was probably out of his mind.” We were only a few feet away. The dog was cautiously sniffing at the air. It’s trying to get a feel for me, I thought.

“Okay, wait, she said, “Back up. What do you mean you haven’t had contact with anyone in years? What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means exactly that,” I said, inching cautiously towards her. The dog moved carefully towards me. “I once lived like everyone else. I had a job and truck and even went to school for a few years. But, I had a ‘falling out,’ I guess you could say, with humanity. So, one day I decided to leave and never look back.”

She blinked. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Until now?”

“Until now.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, somewhat taken back. She was either genuinely confused or just toying with me. The golden-brown dog was sniffing at my leg, just barely wagging its tail. The woman scrutinized me for a moment, and then asked, “How long ago was that?”

“I’m not for sure,” I said, “It’s hard to keep track of time without a calendar.”

“Holy kyaa,” is what I think she said.

“Do you know what all have you missed?”

“Well, no. That’s where I was hoping you could help me.” I bent down slowly and started to pet the dog. It was growing comfortable with me. She responded to this heavily, visibly relaxing.

“Do you know what’s been goin’ on for the last few months?” she asked. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “How about the past few weeks?” Another shrug. “Days? Years? I don’t know how much you’ve missed.”

“Well,” I started, “I dropped my whole life and moved upstate when I was twenty-seven, and that was in 2013.” Her mouth fell open slightly.

“That was like,” she calculated, “twenty-six years ago.”

“Has it been so long?”

“And you’ve been out of sync that long?”

“Um, yes,” I said, hesitantly. New lingo. “What initially got my attention was the massive buildup of stuff in the sky a couple years ago.”

“Yeah, massive buildup is pretty damn accurate,” she said blankly. She was staring at me.

“You’re staring at me,” I said, somewhat crossly.

“I’m sorry. You know nothing about what happened? Nothing at all?”

“No,” I said, irritably. “What happened?” I pleaded. I thought maybe she was beginning to sense my urgency.

“Well, stop me if you’ve heard any of this,” was how she began, which, incidentally, made me think that she was about to tell me a joke. By the end, I wished it had been.

“A few years ago, an international group of astronomers and scientists concluded that, according to their calculations, our solar system was going to float through some kind of massive dirt cloud. Its size was, literally, astronomical: almost as big as the orbit of Jupiter. It was estimated that it is dense enough to block out 87% of the sun’s light. It was supposed to create the worst ice age ever seen on the planet, and virtually all life as we know it would cease to exist. The earth was expected to arrive in the cloud sometime in the next thirty years. That was almost a decade ago. The lights you saw were the escape pods–”

“Escape?” I interrupted, somewhat irritated, “They chose flight over fight?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, as though the answer was really so obvious. I think she realized this because then she said, “Look, I’m sure that even back in the post-millennium era, they taught you about outer space. There’s enough dust in that ‘cloud’ to darken most of the inner solar system. It’s going to get really dark and really cold. The light,” she pointed to the sun, “is going out.”

I scanned the desolate Manhattan skyline as she talked, stunned by her revelations. It can’t be true, I told myself. I shook my head. “It can’t be true,” I finally said. She just stood there and gave a lopsided, sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a comforting tone she had not quite reached since we met, “I’m really sorry. But, it’s true.” I fell silent, and she continued her story.

“Not everyone left on the escaping ships. Many people–in fact, most people–refused to leave at first. Still, many others remained ignorant of it for years because of technological gaps. As the threat became more and more imminent, more people, from the powerful to the prudent to the paranoid, began making serious preparations to escape the planet. The buildup of ships eventually became so visible that it gained worldwide notoriety. Before long, virtually every human on the planet knew what the lights in the sky were, and why they were there. The crisis brought together many peoples that had simply squabbled before, and a newly empowered United World Nations voted unanimously to provide a means of escape for all of humanity.”

“Eventually,” she continued, now very calm, “they prepared the final solution to build enough ships for everyone to escape; all seven-and-a-half billion of us.”

“And that is why the ships disappeared from the sky,” I said.

“Yes, that was our species escaping. They tried to reach everyone. Did you really never hear about it?” She seemed slightly amused, which annoyed me.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t get that memo,” I said, sardonically. Her reaction was plain enough. Apparently, I was being curt.

“Well,” she continued slowly, “they tried to reach everyone. It seems like they did a pretty good job of it. There were people who’d never heard of outer space getting on some of those ships.” She was petting the dog, which lost interest in me shortly after I did the same to it.

She apparently did not fully comprehend how much I was thrown back by what she was telling me. She finished what she was telling me in a very matter-of-fact tone, “But they left a long time ago. There are no more flights out of here. They’re all gone now. All but me, you, Abby here, and a few million other people scattered like salt on a beach. The rest are headed for a planetary system near Rigil Kentaurus, nearly four-and-a-half light years away–”

“Science fiction!” I snapped, unable to believe what I was hearing. She paused, trying to be the composed one.

“I promise you it’s not,” she said calmly.

Then it occurs to me. I always felt something like this would happen. Not this, but a near equivalent. Honestly, I expected nuclear or biological war or some other plausible madness. The thought of a giant asteroid even crossed my mind, but never something like this. Dawn delivered the end of the world to me with a soft, pleasant voice. As I sat down on the ground, I could not help but cry softly. If what she said was true, the sky would go dark sometime in the next twenty or so years. We couldn’t even escape to Mars, which would have been nice. I had only been superficially separated from humanity, and something in me took secret comfort in knowing that.

And then I wonder, who has abandoned whom in this case? I guess I have time to figure that out. Fortunately, Dawn and Abby are here with me now. After she told me about my new fate, we just sat together for a while. Well, to be honest, she held me while I cried my last few tears for humanity.