He felt someone take his arm and knew by her perfume that it was Lucy. He continued watching the Tramp make its way through the darkness and through the glowing curtains of the northern lights. “It’s breathtaking.” He smiled and nodded. “The end of the world should happen more often, don’t you think?”

“Darwin—” She paused. “Darwin, I…”

And then the comet flashed and the lights went out—the comforting thrum of electricity gone—everything dark but the candles and the jellied fuel which glowed pink and yellow beneath the chafing dishes and coffee pots, then that too was snuffed out in a rush of air that stole Darwin’s breath and shattered every pane of glass, exploded every bottle of wine, and gave voice to a primeval sound that was felt, not heard—something great and terrible, a city, surrendering its death-rattle.

Somewhere amid the maelstrom, between the flutter of heartbeats, bounded by the turbulent light that enveloped the sky and the Stygian dark that would follow, Darwin thought of Lucy Stringfellow. He wished he’d touched her lips, at least once.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jamie Ford is the great grandson of Nevada mining pioneer Min Chung, who emigrated from Kaiping, China, to San Francisco in 1865, where he adopted the western name “Ford,” thus confusing countless generations. His debut novel,

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

, spent two years on the

New York Times

bestseller list and went on to win the 2010 Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature. His work has been translated into 32 languages. Jamie is still holding out for Klingon (because that’s when you know you’ve made it). He can be found at www.jamieford.com blogging about his new book,

Songs of Willow Frost

, and also on Twitter @jamieford.

Ben H. Winters — BRING HER TO ME

Before she opens the door Annabel takes a moment to prepare herself. She smoothes the front of her frock, and tucks her hair behind her ears, and readies her face: smile, eyes.

Ready

.

“Hello?”

“Hello! Hi!”

The woman from the Center launches right in, full force: “Oh my goodness we are really getting down to it now, aren’t we? We are really getting down to it now!”

And Annabel says “Yes, we sure are,” and in unison they close their eyes, tilt their heads backwards, and stand glowing for one half of one second before snapping back into conversation.

“I keep pinching myself,” says the stranger at the door, and then she does it, she really pinches herself. “It’s actually—finally—seriously—really—

here

!”

Annabel laughs politely, as the woman pauses at last to take a breath and then to say, “My name is Marie St. Clair, by the way. I’m from the Center.”

“Ah!”

This had already been obvious, of course. Annabel knew the woman was from the Center, because of the clipboard—the flowers—the sash. But Annabel keeps her smile in place, and nods with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much for your service,” she says.

“Oh, pah,” says Ms. St. Clair, waving away the gratitude with a happy smile. “It’s my pleasure. My honor, I should say. It’s all just so marvelous, that we are here to see this day. You and I and all of us, everyone now living,

we

are the fortunate generation,

we

have heard, and

we

shall travel through.

Marvelous!

”

For a moment, after that, Ms. St. Clair just stands at Annabel’s door, beaming, and Annabel beams back. Because even though this speech of Ms. St. Clair’s is made of the same rote praise-words that Annabel has heard a million times; and despite her wariness of this woman; and despite the desperate secret that has troubled her restless heart for so many years; despite it all, Annabel Lennon feels just exactly what Ms. St. Clair is feeling. They feel it

together

. They stand there in communal pleasure for a moment, as if under mistletoe. Together they stand in the sunlight coming from the corridor window, and in the pleasure of what is, and in honey-toned anticipation of what is to come.

The truth is, Annabel

does

think it’s marvelous, and she

does

feel fortunate to be here, to be alive and in this world at this moment, on this day, she really does.

Behind them, out the corridor window, the city is a mass of black clustered towers, like a group of strangers in overcoats, waiting for a train.

“Anyway,” Ms. St. Clair says abruptly and with force. She takes out a stylus and holds it over her pad. “What I am charged with today, on this penultimate day, is performing a final, final, absolutely final sweep to ensure that everyone has heard.”

“Of course,” says Annabel, and then fears she said it too fast. She renews her smile, takes a breath. “Absolutely. We all have heard. Everyone in our home.”

“There are three of you?”

“Yes.”

“Mother, father, child?”

“Yes. Child. One child. A teenager.”

Quiet, Annabel. Hush. Smile

.

“Great!” says Ms. St. Clair cheerily. She jots with her stylus. “And you all know the protocol?”

“Yes,” says Annabel, and bites back the words

of course

. Everybody knows the protocol. Obviously they know the protocol. Everyone is aware of every detail; for the last ten years all has been known; all has been arranged as it has been commanded. They have learned the protocol from the Center, learned it from one another other, and learned it directly from the source of all truth. Loud and clear.

But Annabel just says “Yes” one more time and widens her smile. She is smiling so tight now that her cheeks hurt. She wonders if this Ms. St. Clair

knows

somehow, knows the awful truth of their home, and is waiting to pounce. But the dreaded moment never comes. Instead the woman just runs down the protocol one last time—and then Annabel must sign that she has listened and understood. She does. She grips the stylus and she signs. It’s all mildly ridiculous, because of course it will all be gone tomorrow: the clipboard, the corridor, Building 170, all the buildings, these two smiling women as they are standing here now, as corporeal beings in a carpeted hallway.

“Okay, then, I will see you when we’ve all gone through,” says Ms. St. Clair at last, and for just one split second, for half of one half of an instant, Annabel wonders what would happen if she were to ask “

But what if it’s all wrong, what if it’s all just wrong? What if we’re all just nuts? Doesn’t it ever occur to you?

”

But of course Annabel doesn’t say that. Of course she just smiles some more as the woman from the Center slips her clipboard into her satchel and goes, and then Annabel turns and leans against the door with her eyes shut tight and her cheeks burning hot, until she hears her husband’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

• • • •

Goodness no, by the way—the answer is no. It

never

occurs to Marie St. Clair of the Answer Center that it’s all a mistake, all just a terrible mistake. Such a thought would

never

appear in her mind.

She is committed and enthusiastic beyond question to the plan, as she has been since the day she was born. Her head is filled with passionate belief that it is right, that it is right, that all of it is just exactly right. She is not unique in this. Most people feel this way. All people, officially.