I used to hate slushees, but Fred still has grape and that counts for something. Newt enjoys the sweet tang of lemon lime.

“Cheers!” We say. We clink our icy confections together and look upon the wreck of existence, grey everything as far as the eye can see. Tim Can is Fred’s only other customer, and he’s partial to cherry.

Fred taps water from Grandma’s spring, Old Fateful. Before the end or start of the world, everyone hauled all manner of jugs up to Old Fateful. They thought it was a fountain of youth, but they’re all dead now, far as we know. Grandma, too, years before.

“C’est la vie!” Says Fred. He’s not French, but French Canadian.

Saturdays are disco days. Fred lets us use the generator to spin records for an hour from Grandma’s collection. We argue over Motown and classic rock, Aretha vs. Ozzy. When we get to dancing we go feral, arch our spines, lash out with our hands.

“All aboooooooard!” screams Tim Can along with the intro to “Crazy Train.” This is about all he ever says, but we’re living off of his pantry so we’re cool with his silence in exchange for canned beans. None of us have been moving much or saying much lately, anyways.

All manner of horrors regularly wash up on the beach: charred life preservers, the carcasses of books, children’s shoes. The radio is static, has been for weeks. When a crow lands on top of Fred’s truck, Newt gets excited.

“Proof of life!” he says.

The crow is molting, malnourished, feathers askew. I look down at my lap, legs bone thin and trembling. I choke back tears, raise my cup high to toast the miserable bird anyway.

Truth is the grass on our little patch of earth still grows, the creepy crawlies wriggling in the dirt, too. I don’t think it’s too late for Old Fateful to finally live up to her expectations. Fred’s syrups and Tim Can’s beans won’t carry us very far into this new world, but I’ll be damned if I don’t hurl hope into it like a rocket; like my arm would burn off with the force of the launch.