Mike can’t remember the last time every single surface in his house was occupied: every bed, every couch, and every sleeping bag. He stands in the kitchen, feet resting on the chilled tile and sleepy face warmed by the rising sun. Slender hands push half-stale toast into the toaster. He slams on the button that lowers the break.

Tick, tick, tick, tick…

It’s been eighteen months and twenty-three days since the world split in four. Pores ooze slowly from the gates and stifle the normally-clear air like smoke. Mike tries to ignore it. He focuses on the sound of the clock ticking, instead. Of the sizzle of frying toast.

“You’re up early,” a voice behind him. {{user}}.

“What?-oh. Yeah, I guess I couldn’t sleep. Or something,” it tumbles out of Mike’s mouth in a flustered jumble. He feels his cheeks redden in embarrassment.