Daybreak Zero

^{6 DAYS LATER. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 7:30 PM MST. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2025.}

Heather thought about telling them all, since there was no one there to remember, that it was the anniversary of Lenny’s death, that Leo was too young to understand words about his father, that in a world where the great majority were dead, and her old friends from that time all lost to her, she ached to talk about Lenny and could not. She had wanted to put together some kind of celebration with her friends, not to be alone that night.

Reading her mind, as he often seemed to these days, James had claimed he felt like cooking a big meal, gathered everyone to his house so that Heather had nothing to do but be there, and told her to talk about whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and just do whatever felt right.

James himself was over in the corner, laughing and happy because Leslie was there, hanging with Larry and Debbie Mensche and with Jason and Beth. There’s a group of people that appreciates civilization, she thought.

She looked around to see if Chris was still telling stories—“some true” as he liked to put it—to Cassie, Patrick, and the other younger people; Patrick had been all but struck mute with awe that he and Ntale had been invited, but good food and attention from friendly adults had thawed him out. Chris had moved on, and the kids were laughing and whispering like any teenagers trapped at a grown-up party and entertaining each other.

Heather went into the main room. She missed Quattro and Bambi, still stuck in California straightening out the mess of merging the Leagues, and the presence of so many friends seemed only to remind her of the ones who were not there.

When she saw Chris talking with Phat—and taking notes as he did—she came over and said, “Hey, this is a party. No working at the party.”

“Okay,” Chris said, slamming his notepad shut and mock-whining like a small boy, “but I want to get started turning the general into a hero. Remember, when Leo over here is an old fart like us, he’ll tell stories, and the more heroes and the less truth they contain, the better everyone will like them. Right, Leo?”

Leo made a sleepy, whining noise.

“I think that means ‘leave me out of this,’” Heather said. “And it’s probably time for me to call it an evening.”

With no moon out, the clear sky was smeared with stars, twinkling fiercely through the still-sooty upper air. Leo was pressed in tight against her, under her cloak, and she hurried toward home in the cold.

Ahead of her, lights were disappearing as candles and lanterns were blown out; nowadays, Pueblo, the liveliest city in America, went to bed early. The day you died, Lenny, we were a united country, but in the deepest shit we’d ever been in. And here we are again, except less united and in deeper shit. But overall, it feels like a victory, which makes no sense.

She stood a moment in the street, as if listening to his voice, and then turned to look back at James’s house, still crowded with light and people—her people—and saw, as plainly as all the lines and charts, tables and notes that occupied her working hours, that it did make sense, after all.