Were such things here as we do speak about?Or have we eaten on the insane rootThat takes the reason prisoner?

Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more.By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis

That now Sweno,The Norways’ king, craves composition.Nor would we deign him burial of his menTill he disbursèd at Saint Colme’s InchTen thousand dollars to our general use.

Till he unseamed him from the nave to th’ chops,And fixed his head upon our battlements

For brave Macbeth

As two spent swimmers that do cling together

DUNCAN

bloody

“Which one?”He felt a flicker of sadness. This was a sign of having gone seriouslyastray, wasn’t it? Having more than one ex-wife? He wasn’t sure whereexactly he’d gone wrong. “The first one. Miranda. I’m actually not sure whatto do with them.”

“You really look terrible,”

It was her job to look after the three little actresses whoplayed child versions of Lear’s daughters.“You forgot you were meeting me for breakfast, didn’t you?”He slapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m so sorry. I’m not running on allcylinders today. How long did you wait?”“Half hour.”“Why didn’t you call me?”“Dead cell-phone battery,” she said. “It’s okay. You can make it up to mewith a glass of wine.” This was something he adored about her, the way shelet things go so easily. What a pleasant state of affairs, he’d been thinkinglately, to be with a woman who didn’t hold a grudge.

Arthur’s grilled cheese sandwich arrived. He thought of calling Clark, aquick “You’ll never guess where I’m calling from!” moment, but decidedagainst it. He wanted to call his son, but it was four a.m. in Israel

what seemed at the time like adulthood and seemed in retrospect like adream. The dream lasted just a moment, but the moment was bright: both ofthem taking acting classes, Arthur working as a waiter while Clark burnedthrough a small inheritance.

He couldn’t recall exactly where it was but he found it eventually, a littlefarther east than expected.All these decades later, the place was eerily unchanged. The same line ofred upholstered booths, stools down the length of the counter, an ancientclock on the wall. Could this possibly be the same waitress? No, he wasmisremembering,

He arrived at the theater at noon for notes, but the notes devolved into anextended argument and went on well past schedule. Arthur tried to payattention, but the coffee wasn’t performing as well as he’d hoped. In the lateafternoon he lay on a sofa in his dressing room, hoping to revive himself witha nap, but for all his exhaustion the room seemed oppressive. His thoughtsraced. He eventually gave up and left the theater. Ignoring the boredphotographers outside the stage door, who took pictures and called outquestions about Miranda while he waved at passing taxis. Had he dragged herback into the tabloids when she’d visited two weeks ago? He felt the oldguilt. She’d never asked for any of it.

Arthur nodded hello to the hot-dog guy who always stood on the same cornerhalfway between the hotel and the theater. The hot-dog guy beamed. Apigeon walked in circles near the base of the hot-dog stand, hoping fordropped garnishings and crumbs. The beauty of the pigeon’s luminescentneck.

The weather reports had been full of an approaching snowstorm and hesensed it in the air, in the dove-gray weight of the late-morning sky. He’ddefinitely decided: when Lear closed, he was moving to Israel. The idea wasexhilarating. He would shed his obligations and belongings and start over inthe same country as his son.

He closed the fridge door, made his last breakfast—scrambled eggs—and showered, dressed, combed his hair, left for thetheater an hour early so he’d have time to linger with a newspaper over hissecond-to-last coffee at his favorite coffee place, all of the small details thatcomprise a morning, a life.

He had hadinsomnia for the past three nights, and his exhaustion was such that this wasenough to send him spiraling into something not far from fury, the furycontained with difficulty by breathing deeply and counting to five, soothedby the cold air on his face.

ON HIS LAST MORNING on earth, Arthur was tired. He’d laid awake untilsunrise and then drifted out of a twilight half-sleep in the late morning,sluggish and dehydrated, a throbbing headache behind his eyes. Orange juicewould’ve helped, but when he looked in the fridge there was only a mouthfulleft in the bottom of the carton. Why hadn’t he bought more?

Always these memories, barely submerged

“Frank,” Jeevan says to his son

He rarely thinks of his old life anymore

streets were lit up with electricity.

On her first night with the Symphony he’d served her dinner by the fire.She’d been so alone since her brother’s death, and when the Symphonyagreed to let her join them it had seemed like the best thing that had everhappened to her, and that first night she’d been almost too excited to eat. Sheremembered Dieter talking to her about Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s worksand family, Shakespeare’s plague-haunted life.

Kirsten

She swallowed. “Do you have a name?” she asked. Some vague instinct tostall.“Sometimes names are an encumbrance.

I know it was me or all three of us. I understand whyyou couldn’t shoot. She wished she could tell Sayid that she still loved him

Sometimes names are an encumbrance. Where are your companions?”“The Symphony? I don’t know.” The pain of this, even now when it wastoo late to matter anymore. Thinking of the Symphony, the horse-drawncaravans moving under the summer sky, the clopping of horses. Travelingsomewhere or perhaps already at the airport, in safety, in grace. She lovedthem so desperately

She walked forward through theradiant world, the sunlight and shadow and green

Nothing about this situation was new tohim. The boy looked stricken.The shock of realizing that this was probably actually the ending, after alifetime of near misses, after all this time

In the morning light there was beauty in the decrepitude

The first marked a man who came at her in her first year with theSymphony, when she was fifteen, rising fast and lethal out of the underbrush,and he never spoke a word but she understood his intent. As he neared her,sound drained from the world, and time seemed to slow. She was distantlyaware that he was moving quickly, but there was more than enough time topull a knife from her belt and send it spinning—so slowly, steel flashing inthe sun—until it merged with the man and he clutched at his throat. Heshrieked—she couldn’t hear him, but she watched his mouth open and sheknew others must have heard, because the Symphony was suddenly allaround her, and this was when the volume slowly rose and time resumed itsnormal pace

“Well, Clancy’s a true believer,” she heard the boy say very softly. Hegestured toward the sleeping men. “Steve too, probably most of the others. Ifyou’re not a true believer, you’re not going to talk about it. But Tom? Theyounger gunman? To be honest, I think he’s maybe just in it because ourleader’s married to his sister.”

We must be the light. We are the light.”

she was aware immediately that the Symphony was nowhere near, a terribleabsence

Twenty years after the collapse, she loved the music of the Symphony, lovedbeing a part of it, but found the Symphony’s insistence on performingShakespeare insufferab

Thinking of a boy standing on the tarmac by the ghost plane, Air GradiaFlight 452, Arthur Leander’s beloved only son, reading verses about plaguesaloud to the dead.

eremy said. He began describing the blond-haired man who had held sway over the town of St. Deborah by the Water,ruling with a combination of charisma, violence, and cherry-picked versesfrom the Book of Revelation. He stopped when he saw the look on Clark’sface.

“Why did we always say we were going to shootemails?”“I don’t know. I’ve wondered that too.”“Why couldn’t we just say we were going to send them? We were justpressing a button, were we not?”“Not even a real button. A picture of a button on a screen.”

“Subordinates,” Garrett said. “Okay, so under ‘Communication,’ here’s thefirst comment. ‘He’s not good at cascading information down to staff.’ Washe a whitewater rafter, Clark? I’m just curious.”“Yes,” Clark said, “I’m certain that’s what the interviewee was talkingabout. Actual literal cascades.”“This one’s my other favorite. ‘He’s successful in interfacing with clientswe already have, but as for new clients, it’s low-hanging fruit. He takes ahigh-altitude view, but he doesn’t drill down to that level of granularitywhere we might actionize new opportunities.’ ”Clark winced. “I remember that one. I think I may have had a minor strokein the office when he said that.”

“I do what I can.”

These people, they’re ruthless. They’ve got some crazy theology,they’re armed and they take what they want.

“I know,” she said. “Almost everyone in the Symphony ... but look, Icollect celebrity-gossip clippings.”“Celebrity gossip ...?”“Just about that one actor, Arthur Leander. Because of my collection, theclippings, I understand something about permanent records.”“And it isn’t something you want to be remembered for.”“Exactly,”

“You never had to hurt anyone in the old world, did you?”

François Diallo set his pen and notebook on the table.“Thank you,” Kirsten said. “I’ll answer your questions now if you’d like,but only if these ones don’t go in your newspaper.”“Agreed. When you think of how the world’s changed in your lifetime,what do you think about?”“I think of killing.” Her gaze was steady.“Really? Why?”“Have you ever had to do it?”François sighed. He didn’t like to think about it. “I was surprised in thewoods once.”“I’ve been surprised too.”It was evening, and François had lit a candle in the library. It stood in themiddle of a plastic tub, for safety. The candlelight softened the scar onKirsten’s left cheekbone

“I was in the hotel,” he said finally. “I followed your footprints in thesnow.” There were tears on his face.“Okay,” someone said, “but why are you crying?”“I’d thought I was the only one,” he said.

Home, she’d thought, and she’d felt such relief.

he human enterprise each object hadrequired

If Robert were here—Christ, if only—if Robert were here, he’d probablyfill the shelves with artifacts and start an impromptu museum. Clark placedhis useless iPhone on the top shelf. What else? Max had left on the last flightto Los Angeles, but his Amex card was still gathering dust on the counter ofthe Concourse B Mexican restaurant. Beside it, Lily Patterson’s driver’slicense. Clark took these artifacts back to the Skymiles Lounge and laid themside by side under the glass.

Yeah, but that’s because Elizabeth’s a fucking lunatic,

A rape on the night of Day Eighty-five, the airport woken after midnight by awoman’s scream. They tied the man up until sunrise and then drove him intothe forest at gunpoint, told him if he returned he’d be shot. “I’ll die out here

“The lights will come back on someday,”

arknesspooling over the earth.

There were things Clark trained himself not to thinkabout.

“Everything happens fora reason,” she said. “This will pass. Everything passes.” Clark couldn’t bringhimself to argue with her.

“I think there’s actuallyreally nothing out there, or at least nothing good.”

the world was ending, but all those moments,they were all temporary. It always passes.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Elizabeth insisted. “Are we supposed to believethat civilization has just come to an end?”“Well,” Clark offered, “it was always a little fragile, wouldn’t you say?”

Why,in his life of frequent travel, had he never recognized the beauty of flight?

He’d lost his oldest friend, but if the television newswas accurate, then in all probability everyone here with him in the airport hadlost someone too. All at once he felt an aching tenderness for his fellowrefugees, these hundred or so strangers here in the airport

it was only because he didn’t want to know.

frowning every so often at theiruseless phones

These taken-for-granted miracles that had persisted allaround them.

ime had been reset by catastrophe.

Miranda opened her eyes in time to see the sunrise. A wash of violent color,pink and streaks of brilliant orange, the container ships on the horizonsuspended between the blaze of the sky and the water aflame, the seascapebleeding into confused visions of Station Eleven, its extravagant sunsets andits indigo sea. The lights of the fleet fading into morning, the ocean burninginto sky.

She was thinking about the container-ship fleet on the horizon. The crew outthere wouldn’t have been exposed to the flu. Too late to get to a ship herselfnow, but she smiled at the thought that there were people in this reeling worldwho were safe

The corridor was silent. It was necessary to walk very slowly, her hand on thewall. A man was curled on his side near the elevators, shivering. She wantedto speak to him, but speaking would take too much strength, so she looked athim instead—I see you, I see you—and hoped this was enough.

Miranda rested the side of her face on the desk—the perfection of the coollaminate against her burning skin—and considered the poverty of the room.Poverty not in the economic sense, but in the sense of not being enough forthe gravity of the moment, an insufficient setting—for what?

“He was wonderful,” Clark said. “Back then, back at the beginning. I wasso struck by him. I don’t mean romantically, it was nothing like that.Sometimes you just meet someone. He was so kind, that’s what I remembermost clearly. Kind to everyone he met. This humility about him.”“What—”“Gary,” Clark said, “I’m going to hang up now.”

he had an idea—too sentimental to speak aloud andhe knew none of his divorced friends would ever own up to it—thatsomething must linger, a half-life of marriage, some sense memory of loveeven if obviously not the thing itself.

paperweight of clouded glass that Clark Thompson had brought to a dinnerparty in Los Angeles eleven years ago, and she’d taken it that night fromArthur’s study. She’d meant to give it back to him.She held the paperweight for a moment, admiring it in the lamplight. Shewrote a note on hotel stationery, put her shoes back on, went downstairs tothe concierge desk, and arranged to have it sent by courier to the ElginTheatre.

he scratching of thelittle girl’s pencils on the coloring-book page, the steam rings that their mugsleft on the glass of the coffee table, the pleasant heat of the tea, the warmthand beauty of this room: these were things that Miranda remembered in thelast few hours, two weeks later, when she was drifting in and out of deliriumon a beach in Malaysia.

I stood lookingover my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.

“We talk about acting.Your wrangler knows where you are?” In the way he looked at the girl,Miranda saw how much he missed his own child, his distant son

Why do you think you deserved it?”“I treated Victoria like a diary.” He lifted his mug, blew on the surface ofhis tea, and returned the mug very deliberately to the table. There was astudied quality to the movement, and Miranda had an odd impression that hewas performing a scene

Arthur wasn’t old, but he wasn’t aging very well. It was disappointment, itseemed to her, that had settled over his face,

Once we lived on an island in the ocean. Once we took the ferry to goto high school, and at night the sky was brilliant in the absence of all thesecity lights. Once we paddled canoes to the lighthouse to look at petroglyphsand fished for salmon and walked through deep forests, but all of this wascompletely unremarkable because everyone else we knew did these thingstoo, and here in these lives we’ve built for ourselves, here in these hard andglittering cities, none of this would seem real if it wasn’t for you.

of herself were so distant now that remembering them was almost likeremembering other people, acquaintances, young women whom she’d knowna long time ago, and she felt such compassion for them. “I regret nothing,”

“The world didn’t end,” he said. “It’s still spinning. But anyway, you’dwant to live on Station Eleven?”“I think it’s beautiful. All those islands and bridges.”“But it’s always night or twilight, isn’t it?”“I don’t think I’d mind.”“I like this world better,” August said. “Does Station Eleven even have anorchestra? Or would it just be me standing there by myself on the rocks in thedark, playing my violin for giant seahorses?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t remember her.” She tore the photograph with itscaption from the page.

he virushad had a subtly different genetic structure, some minuscule variance thatrendered it survivable, in any case a universe in which civilization hadn’tbeen so brutally interrupted

What I mean to say is, the more you remember, the moreyou’ve lost.

Finally whispering the same two words overand over: “Keep walking. Keep walking. Keep walking.” He looked up andmet the eyes of an owl, watching him from a snow-laden branch.

It was becoming more difficult to hold on to himself. He tried to keep up alitany of biographical facts as he walked, trying to anchor himself to this life,to this earth. My name is Jeevan Chaudhary. I was a photographer and then Iwas going to be a paramedic.

He couldn’t explain why he wasn’t dead too. He’d taken careof all of them, because by Day Three all the hospitals had closed. He’d dugfive graves in his backyard.“You must be immune,” Jeevan said.“Yes.” Ben stared fixedly into the flames. “I’m the luckiest man alive,aren’t I?”

but held to sanity by sheer willpower

First we only want to be seen, but once we’re seen,that’s not enough anymore. After that, we want to be remembered.

All worthy causes, of course, and Iknow their fame helps to get the word out.But let’s be honest here. None of them went into the entertainmentindustry because they wanted to do good in the world. Speaking formyself, I didn’t even think about charity until I was already successful.Before they were famous, my actor friends were just going to auditionsand struggling to be noticed, taking any work they could find, acting forfree in friends’ movies, working in restaurants or as caterers, just tryingto get by. They acted because they loved acting, but also, let’s be honesthere, to be noticed. All they wanted was to be seen

“I don’t know, Frank.”“Do you know how to hunt?”“Of course not. I’ve never fired a gun.”“Can you fish?”“Stop it,” Jeevan said

he thought offires in a city without firefighters hadn’t occurred to him.

I was onstage with two other girls in the production, and Iwas behind Arthur, so I didn’t see his face.

What makes you think the lights will come back on?” Frank askedwithout looking up. Jeevan started to reply, but words failed him.

No planes, no ships, and where was theInternet?

Why are you still writing about him?”“I signed a contract.”

“Do you want me to mention the ...?” Jeevan didn’t finish the sentence,but he didn’t have to. Arthur winced and looked at the ceiling.

Look, here’s what you haveto understand about Elizabeth: nothing bad has ever happened to her.”“Nothing?”“Don’t write that in your piece. I shouldn’t have mentioned it

“I’m a man of my word,” Jeevan said. At that point in his directionless lifehe wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but it was nice to think that it might be.

Arthur reached across the table and turned off Jeevan’s tape recorder. “Doyou know how tired I am of talking about myself?”

“I’ve always been interested in people,”

And actually, let me revise that, my parentsare in academia so I’ve had front-row seats for that horror show, I knowacademia’s no different, so maybe a fairer way of putting this would be to saythat adulthood’s full of ghosts.”

“No, wait, don’t write that down. Let me rephrase that. Okay, let’s sayhe’ll change a little, probably, if you coach him, but he’ll still be a successful-but-unhappy person who works until nine p.m. every night because he’s got aterrible marriage and doesn’t want to go home, and don’t ask how I knowthat, everyone knows when you’ve got a terrible marriage, it’s like havingbad breath, you get close enough to a person and it’s obvious. And you know,I’m reaching here, but I’m talking about someone who just seems like hewishes he’d done something different with his life, I mean really actuallyalmost anything—is this too much?

but he’llstill be a joyless bastard.”

Someone had called her a littledifferent.

“Ah,” he said. The thought that crossed his mind was that she looked alittle old to be talking like a philosophy undergrad. “How about theimprovement of the individual, then?”

“So the point,” she said, “if I’m understanding correctly, is to change myboss?”“Well, to address areas of potential weakness,” Clark said. Thinking ofDear V. again as he said this, because isn’t indiscretion the very definition ofweakness?

he kept getting trapped behind iPhone zombies, people half his age whowandered in a dream with their eyes fixed on their screens.

Do you ever talk to him and get thesense that he’s acting?”

Love is like the lion’s tooth

I looked up at one point and he wasgiving me this look, like I’d disappointed him personally, and I realized he’sright to be disappointed. I disappoint myself too. I don’t know, V., all is inturmoil.

My friend C. thinks myexpectations of friendship are too high but I don’t think he’s right.

I didn’t tell you this but last month in acting class the instructor told me hefelt I was a little flat, which is his way of saying he thinks I’m a terrible actor.

I have no idea what I’m doing and probably look like I’m having aseizure. I walked home with my friend Clark and he was talking about thisexperimental thing he’d seen where the actors wore giant papier-mâchémasks, which sounded cool but kind of pretentious. I told C. that and he said,you know what’s pretentious? Your hair,

What the Symphony wasdoing, what they were always doing, was trying to cast a spell, and costuminghelped; the lives they brushed up against were work-worn and difficult,people who spent all their time engaged in the tasks of survival.

Kirsten closed her eyes for just a second as sheflipped the light switch. Naturally nothing happened, but as always in thesemoments she found herself straining to remember what it had been like whenthis motion had worked: walk into a room, flip a switch and the room floodswith light. The trouble was she wasn’t sure if she remembered or onlyimagined remembering thi

The beauty ofthis world where almost everyone was gone. If hell is other people, what is aworld with almost no people in it? Perhaps soon humanity would simplyflicker out, but Kirsten found this thought more peaceful than sad. So manyspecies had appeared and later vanished from this earth; what was one more?How many people were even left now?

Kirsten found herself wondering, as she always did when she saw children, ifit was better or worse to have never known any world except the one after theGeorgia Flu.

“I heard it’s supposed to be a place where artifacts from the old world arepreserved,” August said.The man laughed, a sound like a bark. His dog looked up at him with anexpression of concern. “Artifacts from the old world,” he said. “Here’s thething, kids, the entire world is a place where artifacts from the old world arepreserved. When was the last time you saw a new car?”

“Help you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t unfriendly, and this was thepleasure of being alive in Year Twenty, this calmer age. For the first ten ortwelve years after the collapse, he would have been much more likely toshoot them on sight.

Hell is the absence of the people you long for.

A fragment for my friend—If your soul left this earth I would follow and find youSilent, my starship suspended in night

Later in the day someone thought to search the clarinet’s belongings, andfound the note. The beginning of a letter: “Dear friends, I find myselfimmeasurably weary and I have gone to rest in the forest.”

“If you are the light,” she said, “then your enemies are darkness, right?”“I suppose.”“If you are the light, if your enemies are darkness, then there’s nothing thatyou cannot justify. There’s nothing you can’t survive, because there’snothing that you will not do.”

There’s got to be a steadier life than this.”“Sure, but in what other life would I get to perform Shakespeare?”

Dieter had been twenty years old when the world ended. The maindifference between Dieter and Kirsten was that Dieter rememberedeverything. She listened to him breathe.“I used to watch for it,” he said. “I used to think about the countries on theother side of the ocean, wonder if any of them had somehow been spared. If Iever saw an airplane, that meant that somewhere planes still took off. For awhole decade after the pandemic, I kept looking at the sky.”

There was a fair chance, Kirstenthought, that Alexandra would live out her life without killing anyone. Shewas a younger fifteen-year-old than Kirsten had ever been.

No, no, the other one. The two black knives on your right wrist.RAYMONDE: You know what tattoos like this mean.DIALLO: But perhaps you could just tell me—RAYMONDE: I won’t talk about it, François, and you know better than toask.

We stand it because we were younger than you were when everythingended, Kirsten thought, but not young enough to remember nothing at all.Because there isn’t much time left, because all the roofs are collapsing nowand soon none of the old buildings will be safe. Because we are alwayslooking for the former world, before all the traces of the former world aregone.

Museum of Civilization

“He had a dream where God told him he was to repopulate the earth.”

“We can’t take children,” the conductor said. “This isn’t like running awayand joining the circus.” The girl looked confused

A television in a livingroom, a ship moving through the night silence of space, her brother watchingbeside her, their parents—if she could only remember their faces—somewhere near.

While he talked sheallowed herself to imagine that she remembered it

Dieter harbored strong anti-tattoo sentiments. He said he’d seen aman die of an infected tattoo once. Kirsten also had two black knives tattooedon the back of her right wrist, but these were less troubling to Dieter, beingmuch smaller and inked to mark specific events.

“is that quote on the lead caravan would be way more profound if wehadn’t lifted it from Star Trek.”

HE TRAVELING SYMPHONY thought that what they were doingwas noble. There were moments around campfires when someone would saysomething invigorating about the importance of art, and everyone would findit easier to sleep that night. At other times it seemed a difficult and dangerousway to survive and hardly worth it,

starship

In the sense that they’re unpredictable. You can’t argue withthem, because they live by an entirely different logic. You come to a townwhere everyone’s dressed all in white, for example. I’m thinking of a townwe visited once just outside our usual territory, north of Kincardine, and thenthey tell you that they were saved from the Georgia Flu and survived thecollapse because they’re superior people and free from sin, and what can yousay to that? It isn’t logical

The more we know about the former world, the better we’llunderstand what happened when it fell.

Everyone’s afraid, or it seems like some peoplehave enough to eat and other people are starving, or you see pregnant eleven-year-olds and you know the place is either lawless or in the grip ofsomething, a cult of some kind.

The places we return to more than once aren’t dissimilar tohere. Some places, you pass through once and never return, because you cantell something’s very wrong

I have some problems with memory. I can’t remembervery much from before the collapse.

He was performing.Clark had thought he was meeting his oldest friend for dinner, but Arthurwasn’t having dinner with a friend, Clark realized, so much as having dinnerwith an audience.

The world’s become so local, hasn’t it?

draws the stories of Station Eleven in hotel roomsat night.

nthe morning puts on the clothes that make her invincible, a life where themoments of emptiness and disappointment are minimal, where by hermidthirties she feels competent and at last more or less at ease in the world,

“I think this is happening because it was supposed to happen.” Elizabethspeaks very softly.“I’d prefer not to think that I’m following a script,”

The first sentence of the assassin’s note rang true: we were not meant forthis world. I returned to my city, to my shattered life and damaged home, tomy loneliness, and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.

She tells herself as she switches off the light that she’sonly taking the paperweight back to her study to sketch it, but she knowsshe’s going to keep it forever.

What do you live for?”“Truth and beauty,” he says, deadpan.

You people live for that kind of gossip, don’t you?”“No,” he says, “I live on that kind of gossip

We were only ever borrowing it.”

The house is silent now and she feels like a stranger here. “This life wasnever ours

Iprefer you with a crown, but of course she would never say this aloud.

“It makes me happy. It’s peaceful, spending hours working on it. It doesn’treally matter to me if anyone else sees it.”

nobody walks anywhere and who has no friendsexcept a Pomeranian

He brought them a gift tonight, abeautiful glass paperweight from a museum gift shop in Rome

Miranda isfinding it increasingly difficult to hide her unease. Why would a three-yearwedding anniversary celebration involve anyone other than the two peoplewho are actually married to one another?

I repent nothing.

Station Eleven will be myconstant.

She started to explainher project to him again but the words stopped in her throat.“You don’t have to understand it,” she said. “It’s mine.”

All they want is to see sunlight again. Can you blamethem?