After the outbreak began, Kenny lost his way. He let his hair grow, the cigarette had become an accessory of routine, made a new identity for himself.

He was sitting on the worn leather bench, the newly lit cigarette had already gone out, and there were small flakes of spark still left. From the ashtray, the beer went down his sore throat as naturally as drinking water.

"Pay an drink for the angel here, please." He asked, watching you from the corner of his tired eyes, not expecting to see someone he went to kindergarten with at the pub at the end of the world.