“You sure?” I ask. It’s Sunday, and we’ve had a solid thirty-six hours of relaxation, a rarity lately. She is flipping through a wedding magazine.

“Yes. We wanted it to be romantic and beautiful and meaningful, right?” I nod. “And running downtown for a marriage certificate and a photo doesn’t seem like those things at all.”

“But what if the impact is in North America?”

“Then we’ll get married in Venice or something.” Lynn pats the couch. I’m pacing and don’t even realize it. I sit down. “It’s not Texas, but, come on, it’s

Venice

.”

“How about Paris?” I ask.

She squeezes my leg. “That’s the spirit. Maybe Ireland? You always loved Ireland.”

“Mmm. That would be nice. What about the hills of Kilimanjaro?” Lynn’s dad had traced their ancestry through the Eastern African slave trade to Tanzania, and the idea of visiting there has always been one of her dreams.

She puts the magazine down and claps her hands. “I got it!” She turns and faces me. I’m excited by her excitement. “Las Vegas!”

I roll my eyes but laugh. I lay my head in her lap and we make plans for an international wedding. I do my best to be enthusiastic, but my excitement dies quickly. The plans remind me too much of what we did while waiting for marriage to be legalized in Texas. I’m tired of hope and dreams deferred.

• • • •

The conspiracy sites—the same ones that successfully predicted the asteroid’s collision with Earth and had been dismissed as written by nutjobs—are all stating that the impact will be in North America, even though the official announcement is five days away.

The first website makes its announcement at 8:42 in the morning. By 9 a.m. the news is everywhere, and the suppressed terror and anxiety explode across the continent. I attempt to use every possible angle I know to get us both out of the country, but it is clear that only those with political connections or extreme wealth can leave.

I’m not surprised. Four hundred million people desperate to leave has overwhelmed the transportation infrastructure of Canada, Mexico, and the United States. As a result, only one thing has any value any more: A way out. Airline flights to Europe, Japan, Africa—anywhere other than North America—are impossible to find. Lynn comes home, and we brainstorm ideas on how to get away. She notes that her employer, Star News, has transportation and that the company could get us out. I’m not convinced but I keep quiet. Star News is a huge company with a lot of employees. I want to share in her optimism, but why would they save

us

?

• • • •

Lynn’s parents aren’t wealthy, and she’s worried they’ll give up and go into full-on “bucket list” mode. I examine every possibility for escape. My Uncle Don owns a yacht, and I ask my mom whether he would travel back and forth, transporting us to safety, but he had already left the country and hasn’t returned.

Lynn works late again, as usual. She walks in, looking stressed and exhausted, which is unlike her. “It’s really bad, Em,” she says as she walks to the kitchen. “People have torn down the Mexican border fence.”

“So the fence that was put up to keep Mexicans out of America was keeping Americans out of Mexico?” I walk over and rub Lynn’s shoulders as she pours herself a glass of wine. “That is what I call divine justice.”

“People are dying, Em. It’s not funny.”

“They haven’t even announced where the asteroid is going to impact yet.”

Lynn turns and gives me an

are you serious

look. “Everyone knows that the impact is going to be in North America whether it’s been officially confirmed or not.” She’s right, of course.

“Then maybe that’s a good idea, fleeing to South America.”

“I told you. It’s

bad

. You don’t see the stories I see. Panama is a death zone. People are being shot, and that’s if they make it through the minefields or don’t bleed to death on razor wire.” She takes a long drink of her wine. “We’re on our own.”

• • • •

The official announcement is made at nine o’clock in the morning three days later. It surprises no one. The only new information is a more precise impact location: South Dakota. It takes the president about ninety seconds to announce a series of new laws, the first of which means that I no longer have a job. Political consultants like me aren’t necessary when the country is being run by martial law. Thousands of people are being deputized as part of a federal police and military force, and I briefly consider applying, but shooting looters doesn’t feel like something I could do.

While I spend the day pondering being out of work, Lynn is in her element. There is no bigger news in history than what is happening right now all around her. She is not only one of the key correspondents for Star News, she writes for local news organizations. She is everywhere.

“Slow down,” I plead with Lynn as she walks in after a twelve hour day a week later. I have dinner ready for her, and a bottle of wine opened. There are gunshots outside, but those are now ever-present, and I ignore them.

She takes the wine and falls into her spot on the couch. “You know why I need to do this.”

We’ve been over it many times. It’s not simply that she is driven to report the reality of life; she is doing whatever she can to earn points with Star News. Her new strategy is that they’ll fly us out of North America in gratitude. Even after seeing her all over TV and the Net, I fear she is wrong, that she is wasting the last few precious moments we could have together.

“But drop something, even if it is some of the local stuff.” I set the table as we talk. “We should spend time together, before—” I don’t finish the sentence. It’s hard to talk about the impact, now only six months away, when there is only a remote hope that we will escape.

“Okay,” Lynn replies, and I pause to stare at her. I expected her to push back. “Life is shit right now, but it’s not total shit.” She looks tired and stressed. The resignation in her voice worries me. It’s just not

her

. “We

should

spend more time together.”

“Thank you. I’m just worried is all.” She doesn’t reply, but instead stands up and walks over and takes the spoon from my hand to help with dinner.

I step back and watch as she stirs, feeling powerless as the silence lingers. “You shouldn’t worry,” she whispers. When I don’t reply, she turns and looks at me. I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. She is Lynn, and she knows what to say, even now.

She smiles, the stress and weariness is gone. “Fuck it, let’s get married!”

• • • •

I talk to my mom and my dad, and Lynn talks to hers. My mom is excited about attending, no matter when we hold it, but my dad is noncommittal. Lynn’s parents are somewhere on Route 66, following their dream of driving its entire length. They promise to make time for our wedding.

As we tell our friends, the wedding is a beacon of light amidst the gloom. We set a date a month away. That is still five months before the impact, and the hope is that Star News will fly us out shortly afterward. I organize the wedding while Lynn works non-stop.

I’m struggling to find a band for the reception when my phone rings. It’s Lynn. “Hey, Love! How’s your day going?” I ask.

“This fucked-up world has somehow done something right.” She is so excited that I can picture the phone shaking in her hand. “The UN is announcing that they are going to expatriate people from North America to other countries. It starts in two weeks. My editor just told me an announcement is coming later today.”