The Lone

By James c Edwards

In the gripping saga of 'The Lone,' meet Jack Ashby, a man plunged into a world unrecognizable, a world that defies the very fabric of his memory. Awakening amidst the desolation, he finds himself perched atop a towering hotel in Charlotte, North Carolina, the city reduced to rubble and its once-vibrant streets now silent and lifeless. Jack is a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vanguard Patriot Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989849529

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The Lone Copy

James C Edwards

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Vanguard Patriot Press

Copyright © 2024 by James C Edwards and Vanguard Patriot Press

All rights reserved.

This book, The Lone and The Great Unwinding, and its contents, including but not limited to text, graphics, images, and other material (collectively referred to as the Contents), are the intellectual property of James C Edwards and Vanguard Patriot Press. This work is protected by copyright laws and international treaties. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or transmission of the Contents, in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or author, is strictly prohibited.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The Lone and The Great Unwinding are works of fiction and contain elements that are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. Some historical events are used to further expand on the narrative herein.

Any unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or transmission of the Contents, whether for commercial or non-commercial purposes, constitutes a violation of the author’s and publisher’s intellectual property rights. Legal action may be taken against individuals or entities found to violate these rights.

Certain brand names and trademarks mentioned in this book, including but not limited to Slim Jim, Macho Man Randy Savage, and Jeep, are the property of their respective brand owners. Mention of these brand names is for reference purposes only and does not imply endorsement or affiliation with the author or publisher.

To obtain written permission to reproduce or use any portion of this book, please contact Vanguard Patriot Press and James C Edwards at [e-mail]

In addition, The Lone and The Great Unwinding are part of a fictional universe created by the author, James C Edwards. Any other books or works set in the same universe, whether by the author or other individuals, are also subject to copyright protection. Unauthorized use of characters, settings, or concepts from this universe is prohibited and may result in legal action.

Thank you for respecting the author’s and publisher’s rights. Your compliance with these copyright provisions is essential in protecting the creativity and integrity of The Lone, The Great Unwinding, and the broader fictional universe they are a part of.

I dedicate this book, The Lone, to the sources of my inspiration and strength.

I wanted to first thank God, the maker of the universe for granting me the gift of a creative mind. Your boundless imagination and creativity have illuminated the path of my storytelling journey. With every twist and turn of the narrative, I am reminded of the wondrous tapestry of creation that you have woven through Jesus. While this book is not religious, it is one that was created with that gift in mind.

Finally, I want to thank my wife Amber, your unwavering support and encouragement have been my guiding light throughout this creative endeavor. Your belief in me and my stories has been a constant source of inspiration. You are my greatest ally. Thank you for being the steady hand that guides me through the labyrinth of creativity.

1

A terrible gasp for air cut through the early morning hush, a sudden jolt of wakefulness. The man’s eyes snapped open, widening in confusion as they darted from one corner to the other. His vision spun, blurring in and out of focus, gradually settling down to bring the world into view. The sun was vibrant, a blinding beam of white light that pierced his unshielded eyes, making him squint in discomfort.

He attempted to stretch his stiffened muscles, a subconscious need to soothe the gnawing pain that had him in its unkind grip. Instead of the relief he desired, an excruciating wave of sharp pain washed over him, making him groan out loud. His hand flew to his back instinctively, his fingers gingerly tracing the source of the pain. An uneasy sigh slipped past his lips, and his heart lurched sickeningly in his chest.

He struggled to summon his strength to surge upright into a sitting position. Yet, the quiet protest of his body bloomed into a boisterous scream of agony. This bone-jarring pain rippled through his being like a powerful thunderstorm. His body, it seemed, had decided to wage a mutiny against him and, for the moment, was winning. He languished there, caught in the throes of anguish, his lungs drawing in shallow, ragged fragments of breaths. His world was filled with pain, and it seemed his mind had decided to take a leave of absence.

His gaze darted around, a hapless sailor lost at sea, clutching at straws, seeking something familiar, something tangible in his hazy surroundings. He frowned, his brows knitting together as though he were trying to solve a perplexing riddle. But the answer eluded him. His mind seemed to be a void, a barren landscape of thoughts where memory refused to take root.

His mind swirled with a thick, sticky fog he couldn’t understand, as if encapsulated in a lucid dream. His gaze danced over the steel and glass giants reaching skywards, their glass windows flickering bright flashes of light from the sun’s reflection. The ground beneath was covered by dust and smoke kicked up by the wind swirling below.

His heartbeat was the only rhythm his ears registered, a thunderous clanging against the cage of his chest, each throb an echo of fear and confusion. Amnesia had draped his mind, his past wiped clean like a canvas devoid of color, the definition of his history now obscured by the confusion that persisted in his mind. The cooling breeze tugged at his clothing and stabbed at his sunburnt skin while he wrestled with an internal whirlwind of unanswered questions.

He felt like an astronaut cast adrift, suspended in an unknown space, tethered to foreign surroundings. Staring into the void of his memory, every attempt to recollect resulted in snowballing panic. With each successive wave of disorientation, a chilling realization began to crystallize - he was not only on top of his perceived world but also frighteningly alone in it.

And so, he sat there, a paradox incarnate. He was in the heart of a city, yet entirely out of sorts, perched on a precipice between his forgotten past and a building in an unfamiliar city. His future was uncertain, and he felt like a prisoner of a puzzle his mind could not decipher, where the only key to his freedom was hidden within the labyrinth of his subconscious.

He seemed to be at the mercy of the winds of fate, lost in the vast expanse of his existence. It was as if he was looking out into a world he was once a part of but now felt unrecognizably estranged from, a mirage shimmering with uncertainty and trepidation. The cruel twist of this wouldn’t escape him - atop the world and yet profoundly lost within it.

He stood, body trembling, hands heavy with the chill weight of dried blood. He was trapped high above a desolate city, its eerie silence broken only by an occasional chirp. The only door out, chained shut, remained stubbornly locked with no key in sight. Thirty stories separated him from the ground. His only escape seemed to be the streets that beckoned beneath his vantage point.

Slowly, he edged to the edge of the building, eyes sweeping for any alternatives. Glancing downward, he observed the unmistakable panorama of uptown Charlotte. In the misty haze of his memory, an intuitive realization sparked—he was a stranger in this cityscape.

How long have I been out?

The city, once buzzing with life, now lay silent. He was alone, stranded on a rooftop with nothing but the ghostly shell of the Bank of America Stadium in the distance for company. His heart pounded as he spotted a flicker of light in the distance. Pain pulsated through his injured leg and back as he hobbled around the rooftop, searching desperately for an escape route, only to find a fire escape tantalizingly out of reach. Despair washed over him as he faced the harsh reality - he was trapped, starving, with no sign of rescue. His only company was the sea of emptiness swallowing the city, a profound silence that echoed his desolation.

In the bleak corner of the roof, his eyes caught the site of a spool of cable, its existence igniting a spark of hope within him. The cable was thick, built for commercial internet installations, and from its sturdy look, he could tell that it would support his weight. Without a second thought, he limped towards it, grabbed the end, and wrapped it around his waist three times. He threaded the remaining slack around a robust cement pillar above the fire escape. His plan was set into motion.

You can do this, Jack.

He thought and took a deep, ragged breath. He threw a leg over the lip of the building. His leg dangled thirty stories as he began his perilous descent. The rooftop faded as he slowly and carefully lowered himself, the coaxial wire his lifeline. Sweat stung his eyes and clouded his vision; his arms screamed for relief, but he pressed on. Thirty floors—a dizzying height, yet he was determined. Fear was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford.

The man lowered himself a few floors before his foot gingerly felt the fire escape. He stepped cautiously on the rusted walkway, its frame and handrails creaking ominously under his weight. Releasing the cable, he warily tested each step, realizing the fire escape’s end was unfinished. His only option was to break a window and navigate his way down from inside the building.

He stripped off his shirt, binding it tightly around his fist. With a heavy sigh, he drew back, his eyes locked onto the looming window before him. His knuckles smashed into the fragile pane, shattering it into a million glittering pieces, scattered like snowflakes onto the dilapidated metal walkway he stood on. It was as if an ocean wave had crashed against the shore, the tumultuous echo reverberating within the confines of the dark, abandoned building.

With cautious agility, he clambered through the splintered remains of the window, his body contracting, muscles held taut to avoid the shards that gleamed ominously under the sunlight. As his foot touched the forgotten carpeted floor, his toes tapped restlessly against the dusty carpet, kicking up dust from the lack of maintenance. His foot shook relentlessly as a visible manifestation of the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Shaking off the remaining shards of glass from his shirt, he unfurled it and slipped the fabric back over his glistening torso. His breath hung in the stale air, but he breathed deep anyway after managing the descent. He looked back at the window and then back ahead, thankful he made it inside.

The dark hall stretched ahead, doors as far as he could see. Slowly, he walked along the corridor, testing the doors he came across. After several attempts, he found a slightly open room and stepped into a room left ajar, nursing a hope for water. He turned the tap; a weak sputter and only a few drips were what it yielded.

Exhausted and confused, he collapsed against the wall, his body begging for sustenance. His pulse thumped in his ears, drumming a chaotic rhythm that mirrored his thoughts. Each heartbeat was a reminder of his pressing needs—thirst clawed at his throat, hunger gnawed at his belly, both in fierce competition for his attention. Yet, the most overwhelming sensation was not a physical one; it was the potent mix of bewilderment that clouded his mind. The world had spun wildly out of his control, and he was cruelly dropped into this moment of stark vulnerability. He did not know the what, why, or how, and that ignorance loomed over him, more oppressive than his thirst or hunger could ever be.

Lord

In the throes of despair, he found solace on his weak knees. He navigated the room, guided by hands that trembled against the cold floor. A peculiar sight presented itself—a hidden-away mini fridge. Inside, water bottles stood like messengers of hope, each with a price tag around its neck.

Refresh your thirst for only $3.50.

He ripped the cap off the 20-ounce bottle, its tag flapping loosely. The water, although warm, tasted pure. After consuming it passionately, he wiped his mouth. He ventured into the gloom of the hallway, armed with another bottle that he slid into his pocket.

In the calm darkness of the hall, he meandered, his eyes straining for the stairs. An alcove appeared on his right, flanking mirrored doors of broken elevators. A sign indicating stairs pointed mockingly toward his initial point of entry. Retracing his steps, he caught sight of the stairs tucked away by the entrance window. Purposefully, he pressed forward, his journey now illuminated by the sun, whose light spilled in from the end of the hallway, creating rainbow patterns on the ground as the sunlight passed through the shattered glass.

He pressed open the door, its silent yawn revealing the abyss of a stairwell with no windows inside. Each step was a cautiously measured dance, an unsteady balancing act as he descended into the darkness.

The stairs, a cloak of darkness bathed descending corridor, seemed to stretch infinitely. Down a few steps and then switching back down others, Jack’s eyes were squinting while straining to make sense of the blackness. His feet gingerly tapping each step to find solace in the familiar contours of the stairs beneath his trembling feet.

He allowed himself a moment’s respite, halting midway through his descent to cradle his side on the cold concrete, the pulsating echo of pain rippling through his back and muscles. Adjusting to the darkness, he could make out the railing and stairs against the white walls.

He slowly rose to his feet, the pain still shooting through his extremities, ready to brave the remaining journey. Countless flights he traversed, each one blurring into the next, time seemed to elongate, skewing his sense of reality.

A terrifying eternity later, he arrived at the bottom. Where there should have been a door, there was a void. All that remained of the once sturdy structure were the skeletal remains of its frame. The wires that once held the lights in their place now hung loose, frayed ends reaching out towards him like tentacles of a defeated creature. An eerie sense of foreboding settled over him as he looked at the severed wires, echoes of forceful separation still vivid in their fray. As the gravity of his journey and what may lie ahead took hold, he steadied himself against the cold, silent walls of the stairwell.

He moved ahead slowly with an instinct ingrained from years of forgotten experience, his senses tuned to every scrape, every rustle. His eyes scanned the hallway like an eagle hovering over a vast meadow, not missing a single movement, a lonely shadow, or a fleeting silhouette. An eerie silence hung in the air, the kind of silence that gave birth to numerous imaginary sounds, each more horrifying than the last. But there was nothing. Not a soul that stirred, not a breath that whispered, not something that lived. Just a stifling, vacant silence.

Turning right into the spectral hallway, he continued his journey of exploration. His pace was painstakingly slow, like the gradual movement of a weathered tortoise. He moved with the precision of a predator, mindful of not alerting any potential enemies. The hallway’s silence echoed with anticipation—the potential for enemies around every corner, but knowing he was still very much alone.

The lobby lay ahead, a cavernous room basking in the bright sunlight. The dust particles suspended in the air, dancing in the luminous light, added an aura of mystique to the foyer. To his left, the kitchen area extended like a darkened puzzle, its counters and tables appearing as shadowy monsters in the dimness. The smell of old food and dampness clung to the place like an unwanted memory.

The exploration advanced onward, each step unveiling new layers of the mystery of the abandoned hotel. Every creak seemed like a whispered secret, each dark corner a riddle waiting to be solved. The hotel remained a silent storyteller, its stories hidden behind the shroud of darkness, dust, and time.

The hotel was wrapped in a profound silence, broken only sporadically by the high-pitched chirping of a cricket or the distant song of a bird. This tranquil communion with nature was abruptly disrupted when an explosion of metal echoed through the halls—a jarring crash of pots hitting the floor. From the obscurity of the shadows, the luminous eyes of a small black cat darted out of the room. The cat swiftly vanished into the enveloping darkness of the hotel corridors. The unexpected noise startled him, causing his heart to race and his breath to catch in his chest. However, his initial fear soon dissipated as he realized that the source of the commotion.

He gradually turned to the open front door as the initial shock subsided. It was hanging on by a broken piece of metal, protesting feebly against a gusty wind trying to push it shut. The day was turning night, and dusk began setting in and outside the hotel’s shadow, turning dark except for the eerie blue lights flickering from a nearby object. As his eyes adjusted to the discordant illumination, he identified the source - a police cruiser parked in front of the hotel ruins.

The cruiser was a sad sight. Its windshield was shattered, caved in by a brick that sat triumphantly on the hood. The blinking blue lights reflected off the broken glass, casting a trembling glow that danced on the nearby walls. It was an incredibly chilling sight, reminding him of the harsh reality outside that Jack was now facing. He stood still, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, observing the quiet drama unfolding right in front of his eyes. The cat, the cops, and the broken brick were a testament to the city’s stillness, each a silent story.

The weight of the eerie silence pressed upon him, broken only by his hoarse whisper, What on earth happened here? He spoke to himself, his voice felt like sandpaper against each word, he choked and spat briefly, it felt like he hadn’t spoken in awhile. The sunlight shifted further behind the buildings, casting a ghostly sheen over the cruiser, revealing a jumbled heap of police blues next to the driver’s side. The disturbing fact was that not only was the gun securely holstered to the crumpled trousers, but the body to which it once belonged was nowhere in sight. An ominous breeze whispered in his ear, sending chills up his back. Shivering at the coldness of the draft, he spoke to himself again, Arm yourself, Jack. You’re not alone.

In the depths of solitude, he found comfort in talking to himself. It helped that he’d detach, speaking to himself as if he were a character in a tale. Thoughts swirled like storms in his mind, only to be appeased by this strange yet comforting ritual. The tumultuous sea of ideas became a calm pond as he sifted through them, one by one.

From his vantage point, the scene bore the chaotic signature of a riot long past. The building’s front was a canvas of cryptic symbols, their vibrancy dulled by time and the elements yet retaining a quiet, lingering clarity.

He clenched the firearm, clumsily unlatching its magazine. A lone bullet lay inside, a solitary chance. Desperately, he sifted through the disheveled clothes mound, seeking additional ammo, but found only a tangled set of keys.

His hand hovered for a moment above the rusted lock before inserting the key with deliberate intent. The trunk’s reluctant groan gave way to the revelation of its hidden contents - a box sheltering twenty bullets, gleaming like secrets in the reflection of the sinking sun. The bullets disappeared silently into his pocket after he filled the magazine, each promising a story yet to be told.

Before him, the cityscape unraveled like an ancient scroll inscribed with enigmatic symbols. These urban hieroglyphs adorned the abandoned and forsaken buildings and streets, their meanings elusive, their origins lost. Deep within this crumbling and broken landscape, the silhouette of an abandoned stadium rose like an age-old sentinel. There was a force pulling him slowly forward, one that he could not name, and every step he took punctuated the murmuring of a world holding its breath as he limped towards it.

As dusk began its conquest over the day, the sun embarked on its retreat, immersing the colossal shell of the Bank of America Stadium in an expanse of captivating silhouettes. His footfall echoed off the northern gateway, a solitary rhythm intertwining with the whispers of twilight.

As he approached the menacing statues of the imposing panthers with reverence, his gaze was drawn to the immovable stone casts of the large cats. As if frozen in time from a forgotten world, they stood as guardians over the entrance to the stadium. He extended a hand, his fingertips gingerly tracing the legacy etched into the cold, hard exterior. The engraved names, an epitaph of glory, stood bold and unabashed against the test of time.

A tribute to the heroes who had once graced the hallowed grounds of the stadium, each letter and word portrayed the triumph and fandom of a football team once hosted there. At that moment, he felt an indescribable connection with the game’s unrivaled spirit. He stood under the dwindling light amid the stoic panthers and the silent stadium, a silhouette in the gathering darkness - a lone figure woven into the threadbare tapestry of the stadium’s soul. An ordinary man drawn to the extraordinary narrative etched in stone, where the echoes of past victories still resonated within the silent walls, whispered in the cooling breeze, and danced in the disappearing sunbeams.

As the world around him succumbed to the cloak of night, the remnants of the vanishing sun painted the horizon in hues of crimson and gold, casting an ethereal glow over the stadium and the statues, a silent symphony of past, present, and future, where dreams were forged in the crucible of competition, and legends were born under the weight of glory.

Amidst the thick curtain of darkness, the eerie echo of owls resonated, casting a mysterious overture above the dense foliage. High above, the trees formed a shadowy silhouette against the darkened sky. That’s when he saw the entrance to the stadium, standing wide open.

Jack was never a fan of football, the nuances of the game failing to capture his interest. It was the gleaming helmets, the fervent cheers, and the chill of the night air that held little allure for him. Yet, he consistently found himself drawn to the hometown stadium, night after night, season after season.

But it was not the thrill of the game that lured him there. For him, it was something profoundly more intimate. The football games offered him precious moments - moments shared with his father. These events were an excuse, an anchor binding him to his past, roots, and Pops, who introduced him to the simple joy of companionship wrapped in the guise of the hometown football games.

Dad.

His thoughts wandered back, traversing the corridors of memory, to a moment etched deep in his heart - the last instance he was beside his father. Their hands were entwined, a tangible connection in the sterile chill of the hospital room, a silent war against the impending distance. A Packers game flickered on the small television display, casting a spectral glow that danced on their faces, the roar of the virtual crowd a stark contrast to the pervasive silence within the four walls.

His father lay there, a picture of serenity, eyes shut and oblivious to the world around - a world he was slowly drifting away from. In measured, hushed tones, the doctors mentioned the cocktail of medicines coursing through his veins, the modern age’s noble lie to shroud the truth - the drugs were not to make him better but to keep him comfortable, they said. A phrase laden with unsaid implications, a code for the unspoken reality - the end was nigh. His father was leaving, not with a struggle, but slipping away serenely into the night.

Jack’s attention was abruptly pulled away from the riveting game unfolding before them by the unexpected sight of a news reporter, who looked both disheveled and agitated. She starkly contrasted her usual crisp and professional image, adding chaos to the atmosphere. A crowd rapidly gathered behind her, their faces reflecting various emotions - curiosity, concern, annoyance.

Her short bob was usually perfectly styled in tight, bouncing curls and was now a disorderly mess. Strands of hair stood out in various directions, hinting at her hurried, possibly frantic preparations to appear before the camera. One look at her face further underscored her distress - her makeup was smeared across her cheeks, an unusual sight for a reporter known for her immaculate presentation. The streaky blush and mascara told a story of rushed application and perhaps a lack of time for necessary touch-ups.

The seriousness of her disorderly appearance was not lost on the audience. No one had ever seen her like this. It was immediately apparent that something extraordinary was unfolding, something so urgent that it warranted neglecting her impeccable appearance. The game, which had held everyone’s attention only moments ago, was now forgotten as all eyes turned to the visibly flustered reporter, anxiously waiting for her to reveal the cause of her evident distress.

In the heart of our nation’s capital, downtown Washington D.C., a chilling scene of violence unfolded today. Anti-government activists, fueled by rampant hostility, made Pennsylvania Avenue their battlefield. The once peaceful street echoed with the whistle of Molotov cocktails and the harsh snap of bricks hurled at parked vehicles from the Presidential motor pool. The arrival of an unidentified armed militia worsened the widespread unrest. Her announcement was matter-of-fact and plain, she continued,

"Our brave police force, armed only with rubber bullets and tear gas, found themselves outnumbered and under attack. They were no match for the strange weapons wielded by their faceless aggressors. Their retreat sent a shockwave of horror among the onlookers as several officers seemed to disappear, leaving no trace, no sign of their once steadfast presence.

I am Tamara Hollis, reporting to you from chaos and uncertainty..." But just as she was about to continue, the TV feed waned, the screen fizzled, and Tamara’s voice was lost. Flickering text appeared on the screen, a cold, impersonal message replacing the live reporter,

The station is experiencing technical difficulties. At that moment, Tamara was no longer there, and we were left in silence, waiting and wondering what would come next.

Jack’s breath trembled, the weight of his fragmented memories pressing heavily on his chest. A deep pang of remorse stirred within him, tormenting his heart. Why could he only recall scattered memories and not the whole story? Though the memory felt fresh, as if imprinted just moments ago, its exact place in time eluded him, adding to his growing anguish.

As the curtain of night descended around the stadium, Jack found solace on a secluded bench. The weight of his emotions pushed down, causing him to bury his face into the palms of his hands. His body shook with gut-wrenching sobs, each tear filled with his anguish. Desperately seeking comfort, he fumbled in his pocket for the remaining water. Ripping the cap off with urgency, he gulped the lukewarm liquid, each swallow echoing the rawness of his sorrow. With a heavy sigh, he let the remnants of his heartache dissipate into the night air.

2

A fiery sunbeam pierced Jack’s eyes as dawn flourished in the east; he quickly lifted his hands to shield them. With a jolt, he was torn from his lucid dreams to the stark reality that he was still alone. His muscles still ached, and his back was still in anguish. He passed out, perched on a bench, still at the northern gateway of the majestic Bank of America Stadium. Rubbing his eyes as they opened, he surveyed his surroundings, drawing a deep, cleansing breath of the new day.

I must’ve fallen asleep.

The man stood there, his hand pressed against his rumbling stomach, a desperate plea for sustenance. The wind, carrying the whispers of desperation, caused an old newspaper to dance across the desolate ground. With a surge of hope, he sprinted after it, his heart pounding in his chest, expecting to find answers.

Finally, the newspaper came to rest against the trunk of a gnarled tree. Jack reached for it, his fingers trembling with anticipation, only to have his hopes dashed instantly. The paper crumpled in his grasp, revealing itself to be nothing more than an old-fashioned advertisement for a furniture store, a cruel reminder of life’s trivialities in the face of his unyielding hunger.

His mind, defeated by disappointment, returned to its primal need. He surveyed his surroundings, searching for any sign of salvation amidst the desolation. His eyes darted from one dilapidated building to another, desperate for a glimpse of a grocery store, a gas station - anything that could provide the nourishment his body desperately craved.

The weight of his hunger bore down upon him, but he refused to give in. Determination coursed through his veins as he pushed forward, his body driven by an indomitable will to survive. The pursuit of sustenance became his singular focus as he moved forward, hoping against hope that he would soon find solace for his growling stomach.

An old grocery store stood a few blocks away, beckoning like a relic from a bygone era. Its faded sign barely clung to the rusted frame, weathered by what seemed like years of neglect. Jack couldn’t help but draw towards it despite everything, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within him as he approached. Perhaps, within those decaying walls, he would find sustenance. Maybe a bag of beef jerky or chips, something to quiet the gnawing hunger that plagued him.

As he approached, the barrenness of the surroundings became painfully apparent. The windows were boarded up, shielding the interior from prying eyes and blocking any glimpse of salvation. Deep down, he knew finding fresh items would be impossible in this desolate place. The absence of people meant the lack of life, of the constant flow that kept shelves stocked and refrigerators humming.

Yet, a glimmer