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þÿ He grins. The world might stop but adult humor doesn t get funnier. It just gets cornier.

He pulls his hand away and absently wipes his palm on his worn jeans.

þÿ How come we never have volunteers run the O.C. tracks?

Dad turns away and looks at the never setting sun hanging in the clear sky.

þÿ I want a volunteer to run the track to Santa Clarita Station. I used to know someone there.

þÿ If you had one. It comes out harsh. More softly I add, A volunteer.

Dad laughs. A humorless sound.

þÿ Getting harder to find those, kiddo. Who can blame them?

þÿ Maybe it s our turn, I blurt out. Dad flinches, yet we don t get struck by lightning. You and me, Dad. We
þÿcould run the tracks together down to the beach. Have a Daddy/Daughter Day.

þÿ I ll find a volunteer. Santa Clarita will pan out, Dad says, ignoring me. We ll get answers there. Got a good
þÿfeeling about this one. Just because Riverside and Santa Barbara got gobbled up by The Anomaly doesn t mean
þÿSanta Clarita s gone.

The Anomaly. I hate it when he calls it that. The Eggheads are rubbing off on Dad. Not a good look on him.
Dad taught science. Does it make him a physicist here in BS World?

He has his little experiments. Sort of like those space probes NASA sent off into the solar system. Only instead
þÿof satellites combing the Universe for cosmic stuff, Dad s probes are refugee volunteers he sends to run the
tracks, searching for signs of life on Earth beyond Union Station. People-probes who volunteer when they get
þÿsick enough of Forever Tuesday in a train station after the aliens obliterated the rest of the world. (That s my
theory. My competition says it was a nuclear error. Jeez, I hate the Eggheads.)

þÿ Maybe we should have a reverse lottery, I suggest. If Dad s gonna ignore me, why not change tactics? Loser
þÿruns the tracks to San Clemente.
þÿ That s nice, kiddo. He s pretending to not listen. There s answers out there. Dad stares at the sun that never
þÿmoves, never rises or sets, in the blue, L.A. sky. In Santa Clarita. Heavy sigh.

Dad looks like he could use a beer right about now. If there any were left in the refrigerated cold cases in the
þÿfood courtyard long since looted I d happily skip down the tunnel and grab one for him. But there s none
þÿleft to drink. Long ago sucked down by us Union Station captives of The BS. Of course there s always the
greenish spew that sputters out of the water fountains.

þÿI don t understand Dad s determination. So far, there s been seven volunteers who ventured out beyond the
station after The BS.

Two marched out the front entrance beneath the four frozen clocks in front of Union Station our second day
here and disappeared down Alameda Street.

Five ran the tracks, one towards Glendale, the other towards Ventura, the rest to the east.

Not a single volunteer returned. No one came back describing what the Big Sleep did with the rest of the world.
þÿMy opinion? The BS wants us to find nothing. It s highly efficient at erasing things. Union Station is the only
þÿworld left and that s all.

þÿ What about the Eggheads? I ask. They just sit around having science debates.

þÿIt s true. Like, What s the true age of the Big Bang?

þÿOr, Where does all the antimatter in the Universe go?

þÿAnd, If a neutron farts in a black hole and no astronauts are around to hear it, does it make a noise?

þÿThat last one s mine actually. Dad doesn t think it s funny, but I think it s a hoot.

þÿ We can t force them to volunteer, Dad says. Contradicts the definition.

þÿI stare at the back of his neck. It s tough leather broiled a deep shade of burnt umber. It somehow seems sad and
makes him look vulnerable.

þÿ I m going down, I say a little too loudly. Downstairs.

Dad starts, looks over at me, eyebrows raised over his sunglasses.

þÿI shrug and add, Girl stuff. Um. Unless you need me here?

þÿDad shakes his head. No, it s all right, kiddo. You go on. He chuckles. I want to watch the sun not going
þÿdown.

þÿI consider telling him. Telling him what I m going to do. Instead I lie.

þÿ I ll be back in fifteen minutes.

þÿ Take your time, he says. And kiddo? He pauses without turning around. I know you re sick of this this
þÿsorry excuse for a future.

þÿMy eyes well up and I m grateful he has his back to me.

þÿ But I m going to get you out of this place. I promise.

I swallow a sob and shuffle down the ramp to the underground passenger transit hallway where I stop and look
þÿback. Dad s staring after me and I feel a twinge of guilt in my guts. I flash a smile and wave. He nods, turns
away, and I start walking.

þÿI don t expect to run into anyone. When I practically crash into the Egghead I nearly yelp.

þÿ Sorry. A thin, nasal voice squeaks out. There s a flash of spiky, ginger-colored hair over a rail thin body; the
sour odor of sweat in my nose. A pair of piercing blue eyes are too close to my face and I back up a step.

þÿ No problem, I mumble. I glare at him and his face crumbles. The Egghead turns and practically runs down
the tunnel.

þÿI watch to make sure he doesn t stick around. I m glad I do when he stops.

þÿ Do you miss the people? His voice bounces off the concrete walls of the tunnel.

þÿ What? I don t have the patience for this so my voice comes out pinched.

þÿ People. I miss people. My friends. Family. Don t you miss the people? You know. Your friends from school?
þÿYour mom? We might end up living forever like this. Be nice to have the people we love here, don t you think?

þÿI want to march over to him, reach out and grab him by his chicken neck, and shout in his face, I do have
þÿsomeone I love here, dumbass!

But I just roll my eyes and laugh.

þÿ Who the hell wants to live forever?

þÿThe Eggheag throws me a funny look. Then he shrugs, turns and pads off down the hall. When he s just a dot at
the end of the tunnel I breath a sigh of relief.

þÿDon t you miss the people?

What a stupid question.

Before I make the walk to the connecting ramp leading up to Track 10B, I stop and glance east towards the
subway station near the old, busted up aquarium. The fish were scooped out and eaten in the first days of The
BS.

Now, no one crunches over the broken glass to visit the dirty, moss covered mosaics there, or stare at the
þÿshattered remains of the aquarium. Nobody braves the Red/Purple Line across the way. It s best to avoid the
subway tunnels once connecting L.A. County like giant arteries snaking across the region. I shiver when the
subway calls to me. Maybe the ghosts are warning me off my plan.

Move!

A loud voice in my head shouts at me and I bolt. Gray concrete walls flash past as I run. All thoughts of empty,
haunted subways flicker and fade in my mad dash.

I skitter to a stop under a shiny, white clock bulging from a wall near the platform tunnel.

6:47 pm, it laughs down at me.

þÿ Suck it! I hiss at the frozen face.

þÿEmbarrassed, I glance around, but no one s here. The tunnel is just one more ghost town and I m the only ghost
haunting it.

þÿWhen I emerge on Platform 10B, Dad s there. Waiting for me. I can t say why, but I m not surprised.

þÿ You weren t going to say goodbye, kiddo? he whispers, his voice hoarse.

I smile weakly and shrug.

þÿ You were right. This time he s the one holding back tears. It s our turn. And by our I mean your turn. I
þÿcan t go with you, kiddo.

þÿ I know. I m whispering. If I speak louder I might break in two.

þÿI want to collapse into a pile of broken memories and forgotten smiles, but there s a hissing sound in my ears
þÿand I wonder if it s my will draining out of me.

þÿThankfully, Dad s voice reaches me.

þÿ I have something for you.

I watch him pull some folded up papers from his back pocket. One is a map of Los Angeles. I see the words
þÿ Orange County on another. He holds them out like he s Prometheus offering Mankind a bundle of burning
sticks.

þÿ Thanks, Dad. I shake my head. Not sure why, but I don t need them.

þÿI expect him to argue with me, but he doesn t.

Neither of us seems to want to make a big deal out of saying goodbye. Just a quick, awkward hug and I pull
þÿaway from the embrace. But Dad drags me back. Clings desperately to me. Shaking like he s the child and I m
the parent; his breath hot on my neck when he whispers in my ear.

þÿ Tell your mother I love her, kiddo.

I can only nod and step back. This time, he lets me go.

þÿI look over my shoulder only once. Dad s already fading. A dark smudge on a murky platform. A lonely outline
beneath a sun forever stuck on 6:47 PST.

Frozen skies. Abandoned cars on the freeways. Scarecrow trees dying from lack of rainwater. Uninhabited
houses with empty windows. Vacant parks and abandoned schoolyards. Strange monuments from a dead,
ancient world. This is the scenery as I run the tracks south.

þÿDays pass. Maybe years. Or decades. I m not hungry. Not thirsty or tired. I don t take breaks to pee behind dead
þÿbushes or under leafless trees. I don t stop to wonder why there s no bodily functions to attend to. I just walk
þÿthe tracks south. I m a homing pigeon on autopilot. I know exactly where I m going even if the journey s on
rinse and repeat.

þÿUntil it isn t.

I can only describe the change as the world suddenly starting to melt in slow-motion. Solids turn to gel as
everything dissolves into wet, golden, buttery blobs under a disintegrating sky. Everything but the train tracks.

þÿThe Big Sleep is wounded. It s softening as everything is turning into butter.

I should be afraid. I want to feel afraid. But instead, reality dissolving is just one more irony. It gives me a sense
þÿof satisfaction. It s a stab in the heart of The Big Sleep and I m Dad s knife. I may melt away but I m taking
monster with me.

Something down the tracks flashes. I squint and make out a green shape rising from the buttery gold fuzziness
surrounding the rails.

þÿI don t want to see it. I want to fade away, let The BS make a permanent memory of me. But then the shape on
the tracks solidifies.

þÿIt s a car.

Twin headlight beams at the front end punch through the butter. Red lights are waxy, smoldering cherries at the
rear.

þÿDad s old 1972 Ford Galaxie 500 Station Wagon. And it s here.