We used to live in one of those places where you could see the entire world--full floor to ceiling windows, nothing between us and the abyss.

Hanna used to throw these elaborate parties with blue wine and orange grapes, where the music was a bit too loud and hands explored a bit too freely. Our friends would “oh” and “ah” at our view, even after countless times of being face to face with the openness.

We thought we were untouchable. We thought that money and intellect and having the eyes and ears of those on top could guarantee our safety. We’d even started planning: an additional wall here, a new door there; fill it with toys and a tiny bed, maybe paint the new room yellow, maybe paint it blue. For two people set on hating the world we were in, we didn’t seem to mind so much the idea of a new life. We found ourselves visiting countless doctors looking for an answer—some said the pause was temporary, some thought we’d finally reached the end. But we were undeterred and unflappable. Why should we let something intangible control our lives? Why should we ignore our basic instincts, our biology, and everything we knew. Or thought we knew.

And then the first wave of fire hit. LA, Nashville, Barcelona, Paris, and Singapore all went up in flames at the exact same time. No explanation. We thought the politicians and guerrillas were bad, but we didn’t know bad, not yet anyway. What we had known was disapproval and disagreement—things that eventually come to heel. I will never forget the images played over and over on TV screens. They couldn’t stop showing the images of the flames, and the burning of buildings, buses, bodies. So many bodies.

And so it went on combusting. One city after the other falling prey to the blaze. We abandoned the apartment at the top of the world first. We got a boat, filled it with food and water and all the technologies we thought would help us survive the destruction, and unmoored minutes after making the purchase. It had quickly become clear there was no time to hesitate or think or rationalize—and after all, the ocean couldn’t catch on fire.

**

I assume our Ivy League degrees were the first things to burn up when the fire finally came for us.

**

Have you ever stepped on ash? Your feet go straight through it, as if there was no ground, no foundation. And it’s softer than sand, almost invitingly white. That was the first thing we felt after the world stopped burning. Hanna and I walked the streets quietly. Too many movies had led us to believe that what comes after apocalypse is zombies. But the only things still moving were the clouds of dust that the world we knew had left behind.

There must have been others like us, but we didn’t know where they were or how to find them. So we walked mindlessly and aimlessly. We’d run out of food and our only hope had been docking, sure that not everything could have burned, that maybe somewhere there was a locked freezer with cans and cans of non-perishables ready for the taking. We walked until our shoes filled ash, until our vision became blurry and our lungs filled with casualties; until Hanna stopped to run her fingers through the dust that had settled like snow next to what once was a church, the metallic cross standing tall without its Jesus.