NOTES: Written for an AU Bingo challenge. The prompt was - future (post apocalyptic). Title is from a Tom McRae song.

DISCLAIMER: Done for fun, not profit.

It's the end of the world, and it's a Monday – but people still show up for work. Not everyone, obviously, but enough to startle Kenny when he sees them stamping their feet in front of the Junior Gazette, faces pale in the darkness.

He hadn't expected it. Lynda, yeah – he'd expected Lynda, but he never thought there'd be anyone else.

He doesn't know what else to do, so he unlocks the doors and lets them in. And then he gets the next surprise of the morning – because it's dark. Well, it's dark everywhere – the streetlights are on all the time now. A couple of people are wearing reflective jackets, and Kevin even brought a torch.

No, what Kenny really means is, it's dark in the newsroom because the light's not on. And the light's not on because Lynda's not there.

Frazz flips the switch, then turns to Kenny, a puzzled look on his face. "Where's Lynda?" he asks.

Her home phone had rung out when Kenny had tried it. And, to be honest, he'd only even tried it in the first place as a sort of automatic 'just in case' before he set out for the newsroom. Like checking a door he'd already known was locked.

"I don't know," he says. He hadn't even thought of stopping by her house.

"D'you think something's wrong?" Frazz asks.

Kenny looks at him. "It's the end of the world, Frazz."

"And you think she'd let that stop her?" Sonya asks, doubtfully. He has to admit, it's a legitimate question.

The seven people just inside the doors of the newsroom suddenly look a lot less sure of themselves.

"What should we do?"

Louise from Graphics addresses the question towards him, and Kenny blinks at her, as he has another moment of not knowing what to do or say. It turns out there really isn't an etiquette for handling the Apocalypse…but weirdly, Kenny sometimes feels like he's doing it wrong anyway.

"Um…well – what did you want to do?"

Everyone stares at him.

He tries again. "Frazz, why did you come in today?"

Frazz shrugs. "It's not my day off till Wednesday."

Kenny considers this. "…right. Is that an across-the-board reason, then?" He looks around the small group and sighs. "Look – it's the end of the world. Taking the day off work – that's not really going to matter, you know, in the grand scheme of things."

Privately though, he thinks Lynda'll probably approve when he tells her. When he finds her, that is.

"I don't think there's much point in hanging around," he explains again. "As a matter of fact, I'm going now."

"But what should we do?" Louise from Graphics asks again, more insistently.

Worry lurches in his stomach. He should have expected this…well, maybe not this precisely – as big a worrier as Kenny was, he'd never really given any thought to the end of civilization. Worrying about Lynda, though, that was part of his routine, and he should have realised that she might be a bit erratic. Especially after Thursday.

There's a sudden commotion at the back of the huddle, and a moment later, Lynda pushes into the newsroom. She looks almost small in her dark green coat – except for the fact that she's festooned with scarves and wearing earmuffs.

"Well, you can stop blocking the doors for a start," she says. Then, at everyone's looks, "What?"

"You're late," Kevin points out.

"I got caught on High Street. They're looting all the shops." Lynda pauses. "By the way, Colin says 'hi'."

There's a silence as everyone absorbs this, before Lynda makes a small, impatient gesture and says, "Well? What's everyone waiting for? I'm calling a staff meeting in fifteen minutes, and I expect everyone to have something for me by then."

There's another silence before Sonya ventures, "What are we supposed to have by then?"

"Ideas!" She claps her hands – it comes out muffled, because of the gloves – and says, "Come on! This could be the last day of the rest of our lives. Let's make it count."

She stalks towards her desk, and behind her, everyone starts to move. A little jerkily, but still.

Kenny sighs internally, as he realises that, as always, locating Lynda has turned out to be the least of his problems. Giving in to the inevitable, he chases after her.

"What are you doing?" he says, as he comes to a stop in front of her desk.

She drops down onto her chair. "What d'you think I'm doing? Getting ready for the staff meeting, of course."

He gapes at her. "Lynda – you can't treat today like any normal day."

"Of course it's not a normal day," she says, as she spikes a piece of paper with finality. "I've never been late for work before."

He refuses to be distracted, and gestures at the not-quite-empty newsroom. "You need to send them home."

She looks up at him. "They came. They want to be here."

"They're not thinking straight! They can't be – they're in shock. They came here because they're afraid."

Lynda brightens. "They think I'm scarier than the Apocalypse?"

He stares at her. "Not exactly what I meant – even though I'm starting to agree. Lynda" –

"You showed up," she says, voice quietly. "You came here."

"Yeah, looking for you," he points out.

"Well, you found me," she says, returning to her paperwork. "So, what's the problem?"

He tries, because he has to. He's her best friend, and it comes with the territory. "Do you…want to talk about it?"

She looks at him, eyes hard – daring him. "About what?"

He's never been good at dares. Anyway, it's right there in her eyes, and Kenny has always known when to back off. Unluckily, this time he has a good fallback position. "It's the end of the world, Lynda."

"Yeah – and we have a staff meeting in fifteen minutes. Want to guess which of those is going to happen first?"

As she spikes another piece of paper, she advises, "I'd get busy if I were you."

Kenny stares at her for a second, but it doesn't seem to have any effect, and he winds up back at his desk, bemusedly going through his papers. He holds the quarterly budget allocations in his hands for a long moment, before binning them.

Frazz stops by a couple of minutes later. "How's it going?" Kenny asks.

Frazz considers for a moment, before deciding, "Good. The bright side of the Apocalypse is that it makes the horoscopes really easy to do. I mean, it's the same for all of them really, isn't it?"

He holds out both his hands as if pressing them against the sides of an invisible box and affects a deeper voice, eyes gazing into the distance, as he says, "I see imminent death in your future." He drops his hands by his sides, posture returning to normal.

"The bright side of the Apocalypse," Kenny repeats slowly. Frazz shrugs.

It feels almost normal when Lynda calls the staff meeting to order. Until Kenny looks around and sees how few people are gathered around Lynda's desk. It's a skeleton staff. He smile-winces at the thought.

It seems though, that even though they've turned up at the Junior Gazette, like it's any other day – they haven't come to play pretend. When Lynda says, "All right – anyone have any thoughts, ideas…pitches they want to share?" –

Kevin says flatly, "For the paper, you mean? Why? It's not like we can put out an issue. The printers" –

But it turns out 'pretend' isn't on Lynda's agenda either, because she immediately says, "Of course not. But did I say we were doing an issue of the Junior Gazette?"

"What then?" Sonya says.

"We're not doing an issue," Lynda repeats. "It's not an issue, it's a" –

" – record," comes a voice from the doorway. Everyone looks over, and there's Sarah, wearing a fur-trimmed parka with the hood up, and a hard look on her face. "We're here to write a record."

Something passes between her and Lynda – Kenny can see the minute twitch of Lynda's mouth before she says, "Exactly." After a second's consideration, she adds, "And you're late."

"I had to sneak out." Sarah comes in, leaving the door swing closed behind her. She's holding an A4 pad and a pen in her mitten-covered hands. "My parents sort of wanted me to stay home."

Frazz finally catches up, looking between Lynda and Sarah with a frown. "What? You mean 'record' like – history?" Absently, he holds up his hands and blows into them.

"We need to leave something behind," Lynda says. "For other people to find. So they'll know how things were. Before."

"Well…yeah, but – why us?" Louise from Graphics says. "We're just some kids who run a paper."

"So? The cave painters were just a group of troglodytes with fine motor skills" –

"Er, actually," Kevin begins, but Lynda casts a withering glance at him and continues, "The point is – someone's got to do it."

She leaves her words a moment to sink in, as she makes eye-contact with everyone gathered around her. "So – who's in?"

Sarah's the first to speak – unsurprisingly, given how in tune she and Lynda seem to be. It reminds Kenny of how they are whenever the Junior Gazette has a big story to do justice to. Well…in a macabre way.

"I stopped a few people on the way," she says, holding up her notepad. "But we could use more street stuff, on the spot interviews – that kind of thing."

"Photographs too," Lynda says, nodding. "Kevin" –

"I'll bring the tripod," he says.

"Great. Sonya – grab some paper and a pen and go with him."

Almost before she finishes giving the order, Sonya's grabbing a pen off the desk and searching for a notebook.

"I bumped into Colin on the way here," Sarah continues. "He says the way things are going, he should be a millionaire before noon – and if he is, he'll stop by later."

"Right – but what do the rest of us do until then?" Kenny asks.

Lynda and Sarah exchange another look.

"Well," Sarah says, "Here's as important as anywhere else, when you think about it, right?"

"What d'you mean?" Louise from Graphics frowns.

"Sarah's going to interview you," Lynda tells her.

"Me?"

"All of you," Lynda corrects impatiently, looking around at the remaining people clustered around her. "And, if we're going to get anything done – we'd better start right now. We've got a hell of a deadline to meet."

They take it in turns – and as Kenny methodically works his way through the stack of papers on his desk, he hears bits and pieces of Sarah's interviews – all these vulnerable strings of words twisting and digging their way into his brain.

"…name is Louise Smith, and I'm nineteen – I would have been twenty in two months time…"

"…my tenth birthday, and it was pink…"

"…and even though I know it's going to happen – it's like…I still can't believe it…"

"…for the first time, I'm glad mum's gone – because she doesn't have to see this…"

One girl, Wendy Jameson the Proofreader, gets so upset they have to send her home with Gemma – the other girl in Graphics. But there's a point in everyone's interview where they have to stop. In the end, Sarah stands a roll of toilet paper on her desk, and just lets people reach for it whenever they start getting emotional.

Then, of course, there's Frazz' interview.

"…and there's Libra and Sagittarius. And that's it."

"Star signs?" Sarah asks. "Seriously, Frazz – don't you think there's more important things to talk about right now?"

"Trust me – this is going to save whoever comes after us a lot of work," Frazz says. He pauses for a moment, then says, "Think they'll put up a statue to me?"

By this time, Kenny's cleared his desk. It's the first time it's been totally free of paper since the Junior Gazette began. He stares down at the uncluttered surface and his stomach turns.

This is when Sarah pulls over a chair, and puts down her voice recorder and notebook on his achingly clean desk. He shakes his head a little. "Sarah – I" –

"Sonya's not back yet, so – would you do me?" she asks, suddenly.

Surprised, he manages to make his voice cough out a, "Yeah. Yeah, of course," and without further ado, Sarah pushes over the notepad and pen, and pushes a button on her voice recorder. She states, "My name is Sarah Jackson. I'm the lead writer for the Junior Gazette, and I'm twenty years old."

Her eyes meet Kenny's. She has that hard, intent look on her face again, as she plunges straight in. "I know it's a cliché, but…all I can think about is everything I'll never have the chance to do. Things like…go to university. Become a writer – a proper one, I mean. Meet someone special."

It's so sudden and so intense that Kenny feels like he's in a car that's jolted forward without warning. The pen is in his hand, but he can't move his fingers.

"But it's not just that," Sarah says. "It's all the things I never did, too. All the things I bottled out of." Her lips twist. "Like – my family went on holiday two years ago. We stayed at this hotel in Spain for a week, and every day, I'd see this guy – my age, maybe a bit older. He was always hanging around the pool, and I'd watch him. Spend ages just – looking at him. But every time he'd look back at me, I'd hide my face in my book."

She stares down at her mittened hands, but Kenny can tell she's not really seeing them. Her voice is preoccupied. "I look back now, and I think – I think, what a stupid way to live your life. What a waste. A stupid waste."

He has to put down the pen, which feels like it's made out of lead, weighing down his hand. This is just so unnaturally, claustrophobically personal. He doesn't know how Sarah can do it. "Listen – I can't" –

"But you have to," she says quietly. Her face is rueful and she looks a bit more like the Sarah he's used to. "Sorry, Kenny, but if I don't say it now…"

And just like that – he knows how Sarah could stand it.

"All right," he says. His voice doesn't feel entirely his yet – but it's better.

"It's funny," Sarah says. She smiles a bruised smile at him. "People say it all the time. 'It's not the end of the world.' 'Cheer up, it might never happen.' And then – when it does happen, it turns out that…you just get on with things."

"Not like we've got much choice," Kenny points out.

"Yeah." Sarah looks at him, and he can see the second she snaps back to business, because she straightens and says, "Right, your turn," and takes off her mittens so she can hold her pen.

Colin shows up at about half past twelve, lugging two big refuse sacks. "Net worth, three million and seventy five pounds," he says, looking at the black plastic at his feet with adoration. "Most of it's in jewellery, but you take what you can get, right?"

"Well, you certainly do," Lynda says, arms folded, nudging one of the sacks with her foot. Colin moves it out of the way, continuing smoothly, "Like I always say – it's the principle of the thing."

Kenny notices that Colin is wearing several thick gold chains. He's even wearing a few rings, over a pair of brown leather gloves.

"Right. The principle of looting and pillaging," Lynda says flatly. "Where did you learn that one again – the Vikings?"

"It's an oldie, but a goodie," Colin agrees.

It's good to see him, actually, because he starts unloading sandwiches and boxes of tissues from one of the refuse sacks. They've almost run out of toilet roll and everyone's hungry.

Well, it's good until Colin says, in the sincere tone that anyone who's spent more than five minutes in his company has learned to distrust, "Listen, guys – I realize this is an emotional day for everyone, and because of that…tissues are half-price."

Lynda glares at him and gestures at the refuse sacks – "You do realize you can't take it with you, Colin?"

Colin shakes his head, pityingly. "It's not about 'taking it with me'." He pauses. "It's about me…keeping it company for as long as I possibly can."

Kenny picks up some tissues, and Colin puts his hand on top of the box, apologetic. "Sorry, Kenny – but I'm going to have to go full price on this one. Quilted, you see." He pulls a tissue out with a magician's flair, to demonstrate.

Sarah sighs. "I know I'm going to regret this, but come over here, and I'll interview you."

Colin obligingly starts hauling his refuse sacks in her direction.

"You can leave them there," Sarah says. "No-one's going to take anything, Colin."

He stares at her in consternation. "Sarah – I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation. We have got an extremely limited amount of time left on this earth. That's the kind of thing that makes you get your priorities in order. Figure out what's really important."

He smiles tenderly down at the refuse sacks. "I refuse to spend one more second being parted from what I love. In the end, it's all about quality time, isn't it?"

Sonya and Kevin finally come back, and Sarah manages to wrest some kind of an interview from Colin – though honestly, most of the time, it sounds like Colin's just listing the value of the things in his bags. "Now, are you sure you have the right price on my Rolexes? This is going to be a matter of historical record – it's important to be accurate."

And then, in the middle of all this, the ground lurches beneath their feet, a sudden, forceful heave that causes everyone to grab for something solid to hold on to. Kenny and Lynda's eyes meet and as the lights flicker and someone screams, Kenny can feel everyone thinking, "Now? Now?" – in a simultaneous burst of panicked denial.

But as they take one cautious breath, then two, and three, and nothing else happens – the ground stays where it's supposed to, and the lights stay steady – people slowly relax their grips on desks and chairs and each other. Colin stops embracing his refuse sacks and opens his eyes.

It's not the same after that, because Louise from Graphics unsteadily lets go of Timothy (Entertainment/Features) and says, "I think – I'm going to go home now." That means Timothy has to go too, because he's still clutching Louise's arms. Colin heads off as well. "We need some time alone – to just…be together, before the end. I haven't even seen them without the price tags…I'm sure you understand."

"It's almost moving," Kenny murmurs to Lynda, as they watch them leave. "…if you ignore the fact that he's talking about two refuse sacks full of contraband."

At the door, Colin pauses, and turns back. "Hey," he says, face serious, for Colin. His eyes scan the six people left in the newsroom, lingering on Frazz, Sarah, Kenny and Lynda. "If I don't see you again, well – good luck." His mouth lifts slightly, in an almost smile.

"Good luck," Kenny says, the words sounding very small, like the space of the newsroom is trying to swallow them up.

"Good luck, mate," Frazz echoes.

Sarah doesn't say anything, while Lynda holds his eyes for a long moment before jerking her chin upwards, once.

Everyone who's left starts transcribing interviews and making typed copies, and maybe three quarters of an hour later, Sarah, who has been staring at the red door to the meeting room, suddenly gets to her feet. "I'm going in," she says.

"But – Lynda's in there," Kevin tells her.

"That's the point," she says. She looks at Kenny. "This is a record of everyone here."

"Well, good luck," Sonya says dubiously.

Kenny nods. "Good luck." He knows what she's trying to do – and he wonders whether she'll have better luck than he did. It's a bit hard to tell – Sarah and Lynda are good friends…but sometimes they're better enemies.

He thinks everyone expects Sarah to burst out of the meeting room in ten seconds or less, probably accompanied by the last words of one of Lynda's diatribes – but instead, she stays in there for ages.

"Think she's all right?"

"Do you want to go in there and check?" Kenny asks.

"No chance. Think I'd rather take my chances with the Apocalypse," Sonya says, bending her head over her work again.

Kenny doesn't interrupt either, but he keeps glancing at the closed door. Maybe Sarah's accurate historical record had been the excuse Lynda needed to open up about Thursday.

When Sarah finally does exit the room, she doesn't look at Kenny, so he doesn't know. And then – that's it. Time's up. According to everyone's watches, it's the end of the what-used-to-be-day.

"Right," Lynda says, brushing past Sarah to stand at the top of the newsroom, "That's it. Good job everyone…and I'm not just saying that because of the circumstances." She looks around, and her eyes meet Kenny's. "Now, go home," she says.

Everyone starts gathering their things, a bit awkward as they shuffle their way towards the door. Then, once they get outside, it's all looks and tongue-tied smiles.

Sarah tries, turning to Kenny and saying, "I guess this is…" but she trails off before finishing the sentence. A second later, she squares her shoulders and tries again, but instead of saying goodbye, she says, "Thanks."

"What for?" he asks, mouth twisting wryly.

"I don't know," she says, as a smile, a real smile spreads across her face. It triggers an answering smile in Kenny, and they grin at each other for a second, before she turns and walks away.

Before Frazz strides off, Kenny says, "Frazz! Um – I just wanted to say…goodbye."

Frazz looks at him, comprehension dawning across his face. "Oh yeah – I probably won't see you tomorrow," he says, and it's one of those small moments that somehow magnifies in Kenny's mind, making him realize, once again – that it really is the end.

Well, until Frazz says, "Tomorrow's your day off, isn't it?"

Kenny shakes his head and starts walking. Now go home. He makes it two whole streets before he sighs and abruptly wheels around, heading back the way he came.

The outer door is locked, but Kenny doesn't get his hopes up – a wise decision, since when he unlocks the door and goes inside, he finds the lights still on and Lynda sitting on top of her desk, frowning absently at a chair. He sighs again.

"Lynda, you can't stay here," he says.

She looks up, as unsurprised to see him there as he was to find her. "Why not?"

"Why not?" he repeats.

"Let me guess – it's bad for me?" she suggests. "Well, somehow, I don't think overwork's going to be the thing that kills me. Just a hunch."

He stares at her. "Lynda…" He's about to launch into the familiar argument, but he stops. In a different tone of voice, he says, "I'm not doing this, Lynda. I refuse to have this conversation with you again. Do you hear me?"

"What's wrong with this conversation?" she asks, sounding affronted.

"Lynda, it's the end of the world!" he points out, for what feels like the millionth time. It'd be nice if it finally sank in.

"So?"

"So? So? So – this could very well be the last night of our lives! Shouldn't we find something else to talk about. Something just a bit more profound than your terrible sleeping habits?"

Lynda doesn't seem enthused at the thought. "Like what?"

He finally gives in, releasing a loud, long-suffering breath and crossing over to hoist himself up next to her. They sit in silence for a few minutes. Kenny kicks his heels lightly against the desk.

"Jenny came round on Saturday," he says suddenly.

Lynda frowns. "Jenny? Isn't that the girl you used to go out with? The one whose brother" –

"Yeah."

"What did she want?"

"She wanted to apologise. Said she always regretted" –

"Ditching you via letter?"

"She didn't put it in exactly those terms," Kenny says, casting a baleful sidelong look at her.

"So – what happened?"

He shrugs. "She apologized." Lynda waits, and the silence compels him to continue, just to fill it up. "And – well…then she said she wanted to…"

"To…?" Lynda prompts him.

He stares at her for a moment, and she stares back, uncomprehending, so, a little abashed, he raises his eyebrows and jerks his head. Significantly.

Lynda finally gets it. "Oh. Right." She sounds a bit nonplussed. "So – what did you do?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Now it's Lynda's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Yeah – apart from that."

He can feel her eyes on him. He sighs and his shoulders slump. "I told her no."

"Why?"

It takes him a moment to articulate it. "It all felt so – sudden," he finally says, aware of how ridiculous it sounds. But the fact remains – it had always taken him at least three drafts of every letter – and that was just to figure out what he wanted to write to her.

This time it's Lynda's turn to remind him, quietly, "End of the world, Kenny."

"Well, yeah, but – and that's another thing," he interrupts himself, suddenly sidetracked, "How do you cope with something like that? It's a lot of pressure – being someone's last ever…"

"Oh, I don't know," Lynda says, deliberately provoking him, "I mean, no matter what happens – you're sure to go out with a bang." She studies him. "What did she say when you told her?"

"She didn't say anything, really. Slapped me and left, actually." His hand comes up to touch his jaw. "It's not – I wouldn't have minded. But I didn't know if it was me, or the end of the world – and I don't think she did, either. It felt like I'd be taking advantage of the situation."

"Kenny – you have got to be the only person in the world who would think about ethics while the world is ending," Lynda says. "You're too nice for your own good."

He tilts his head in acknowledgment, before deciding to play Devil's Advocate. "Or maybe, I'm not nice enough." He shakes his head, mock-mournfully, "And to think – everyone always said I was so obliging."

The amusement leaks out of him, like air from a slowly deflating balloon. He stares across the artificially lit newsroom and admits, "It was just – I didn't want it to happen like this."

She nods, and they lapse into silence again. Kenny laces his fingers together in his lap. Lynda looks straight ahead, frowning at the chair in front of her. It's pulled back from the desk – like someone's just about to sit in it.

"I don't know if today even mattered," she says. "All that work – and it probably didn't even mean anything."

Kenny turns his head to her. "It mattered," he says, remembering Sarah's voice, the snippets he'd overheard. They hadn't ever been interviews, not really – more…people bearing witness to each other's lives. Reminding each other that they counted. That they were important.

"Even if all those interviews – even if they don't" – survive, his brain prompts, even as he stumbles and misses the word, "Even if they don't…it was still worth doing."

She doesn't sound convinced. "Yeah."

"What did you talk to Sarah about?" he asks suddenly.

"What?"

"In your interview. You were in there for ages."

"Oh. Nothing. I was editing."

"Editing?" Kenny braces his hands on the desk and leans forward, as he says in a tone of mingled disappointment and low-key shock, "Lynda – tell me you didn't."

But really – the shock's only there for form's sake.

"What? You have to admit, some of those stories were a bit – sappy."

"Sappy? Lynda – it's the end of the world. People are bound to get a bit emotional!"

"That's still no reason for us to present sloppy work."

There's no use arguing with her. He dusts off his hands on his thighs, and gets to his feet, and says, "Come on – I'll walk you home."

Lynda doesn't move. "There's no point," she says. He frowns, not knowing – but beginning to suspect. "Mum's with my Aunt and Uncle in Sherrington."

"Lynda…" he says, almost despairingly.

"She wanted me to go, but I wouldn't." She shrugs.

"Why not?"

Lynda looks away and he sits down next to her again.

Finally, with a slowness that's almost painful, she says, "I just keep wondering – what was it like? In America. For – all those people."

And there it is. Thursday.

It isn't a direct answer to his question, but Kenny is very good at deciphering Lynda. He should be – he's had years of practice. And for someone who regularly reduces other people to tears with paint-stripping honesty, Lynda can be surprisingly cautious sometimes. Like a cat, barely brushing up against the more difficult emotions.

He tries to figure out the kindest way to say it, following Lynda's gaze to the empty chair. "They probably didn't feel anything," he says, willing his voice to stay steady, to carry enough conviction to convince Lynda. "They didn't have time to…it was instantaneous – they never even knew. Not like us."

She nods slowly, but the absent frown on her face doesn't change. Kenny doesn't know what else to say.

A few more moments of silence, and she takes a deep breath and turns to him, and says, "Your mum'll be worried."

"Yeah," he agrees, and smiles. It's gracious – for Lynda. But he looks at her, and he can remember playing chess with her on her fourteenth birthday – and then getting thrown out of her room for his trouble. He can remember the salty taste of the playdough dinner she made him eat. He'd still know the smell of the fabric softener she uses, even if he was miles away.

All little things, but there are years of them, and they mount up. And he can't take the out she gives him. But then, he couldn't take it – Now go home – the first time either.

"Tiddler's got a pack of cards in her desk," he says instead. "I think we've got time to squeeze in one more game, don't you?"

She looks at him, eyes intent on his, and says, "Are you sure?"

He nods.

"Thanks," she says, in a small voice. Then, stronger, "You can deal."

"Oh, now I know the world is ending," he teases.

"Shut up," she says, without heat.

He gets the deck out, and shuffles it, and they play snap, just the two of them, while they wait for the end of the world.