“Leaning,” Marty repeated. In his mind he saw an image of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. With Chuck Krantz’s retirement photo on top.

“It’s on the edge of the sinkhole and although it hasn’t fallen in, it looks very unsafe to me. Sure to be condemned. I suppose that’s the end of my job, at least in the downtown branch, but I don’t really care. I just want to go home and put my feet up.”

“I was curious about the billboard on the bank building. Have you seen it?”

“How could I miss it?” she asked. “I work there, after all. I’ve also seen the graffiti, which is everywhere—we love you Chuck, Chuck lives, Chuck forever—and the ads on TV.”

“Really?” Marty thought of what he’d seen on Netflix last night, just before it went away. At the time he’d dismissed it as a particularly annoying pop-up ad.

“Well, the local stations, anyway. Maybe it’s different on cable, but we don’t get that anymore. Not since July.”

“Us, either.” Now that he had begun the fiction that he was still part of an us, it seemed best to carry on with it. “Just channel 8 and channel 10.”

Andrea nodded. “No more ads for cars or Eliquis or Bob’s Discount Furniture. Just Charles Krantz, thirty-nine great years, thanks, Chuck. A full minute of that, then back to our regularly scheduled reruns. Very peculiar, but these days, what isn’t? Now I really want to get home.”

“This Charles Krantz isn’t associated with your bank? Retiring from the bank?”

She paused for just a moment before continuing her homeward trudge, carrying high heels she would not need that day. Perhaps ever again. “I don’t know Charles Krantz from Adam. He must have worked in the Omaha headquarters. Although from what I understand, Omaha is just a great big ashtray these days.”

Marty watched her go. So did Gus Wilfong, who had joined him. Gus nodded at the glum parade of returning workers who could no longer get to their jobs—selling, trading, banking, waiting on tables, making deliveries.

“They look like refugees,” Gus said.

“Yeah,” Marty said. “They kind of do. Hey, you remember asking me about my food supplies?”

Gus nodded.

“I have quite a few cans of soup. Also some basmati and Rice-A-Roni. Cheerios, I believe. As for the freezer, I think I might have six TV dinners and half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”

“You don’t sound concerned.”

Marty shrugged. “What good would that do?”

“But see, it’s interesting,” Gus said. “We were all concerned at first. We wanted answers. People went to Washington and protested. Remember when they knocked over the White House fence and those college kids got shot?”

“Yeah.”

“There was the government overthrow in Russia and the Four Day War between India and Pakistan. There’s a volcano in Germany, for Christ’s sake—Germany! We told each other all this would blow over, but that doesn’t seem to be happening, does it?”

“No,” Marty agreed. Although he’d just gotten up, he felt tired. Very. “Not blowing over, blowing harder.”

“Then there’s the suicides.”

Marty nodded. “Felicia sees them every day.”

“I think the suicides will slow down,” Gus said, “and people will just wait.”

“For what?”

“For the end, pal. The end of everything. We’ve been going through the five stages of grief, don’t you get it? Now we’ve arrived at the last one. Acceptance.”

Marty said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.

“There’s so little curiosity now. And all this . . .” Gus waved an arm. “It came out of nowhere. I mean, we knew the environment was going to the dogs—I think even the right-wing nutjobs secretly believed in it—but this is sixty different varieties of shit, all at once.” He gave Marty a look that was almost pleading. “In how long? A year? Fourteen months?”

“Yes,” Marty said. “Sucks.” It seemed to be the only word that fit.

Overhead they heard a droning sound and looked up. The big jets flying in and out of the municipal airport were few and far between these days, but this was a small plane, bumbling along in the unusually clear sky and belching a stream of white from its tail. The plane twisted and banked, rose and fell, the smoke (or whatever chemical it was) forming letters.

“Huh,” Gus said, craning. “Skywriting plane. Haven’t seen one since I was a kid.”

CHARLES, the plane wrote. Then KRANTZ. And then—of course—39 GREAT YEARS. The name was already starting to fuzz out as the plane wrote THANKS, CHUCK!

“What the fuck,” Gus said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Marty said.

* * *

He had skipped breakfast, so when he went back inside, Marty microwaved one of his frozen dinners—a Marie Callender’s Chicken Pot Pie, quite tasty—and took it into the living room to watch TV. But the only two stations he could pull in were showing the photograph of Charles “Chuck” Krantz sitting at his desk with his pen at the eternal ready. Marty stared at it while he ate his pot pie, then killed the idiot box and went back to bed. It seemed the most sensible thing to do.

He slept for most of the day, and although he didn’t dream of her (at least that he could remember), he woke up thinking of Felicia. He wanted to see her, and when he did he would ask if he could sleep over. Maybe even stay. Sixty different varieties of shit, Gus had said, and all at once. If this really was the end, he didn’t want to face it alone.

Harvest Acres, the tidy little development where Felicia now lived, was three miles away, and Marty had no intention of risking the drive in his car, so he put on his sweatpants and sneakers. It was a beautiful late afternoon for walking, the sky still an unblemished blue, and plenty of people were out and about. A few looked as if they were enjoying the sunshine, but most just looked down at their feet. There was little talk, even among those who were walking in pairs or trios.

On Park Drive, one of the east side’s main thoroughfares, all four lanes were jammed with cars, most of them empty. Marty wove his way between them, and on the other side encountered an elderly man in a tweed suit and matching trilby hat. He was sitting on the curb and knocking his pipe out into the gutter. He saw Marty watching him and smiled.

“Just taking a rest,” he said. “I walked downtown to look at the sinkhole and take a few pictures with my phone. Thought one of the local television stations might be interested, but they all seem to be off the air. Except for pictures of that fellow Krantz, that is.”

“Yes,” Marty said. “It’s all Chuck, all the time now. Any idea who—”

“None. I’ve asked two dozen people, at least. Nobody knows. Our man Krantz appears to be the Oz of the Apocalypse.”

Marty laughed. “Where are you heading, sir?”

“Harvest Acres. Nice little enclave. Off the beaten track.” He reached into his jacket, produced a pouch of tobacco, and began reloading his pipe.

“I’m going there myself. My ex lives there. Maybe we could walk together.”

The elderly gent got up with a wince. “As long as you don’t rush along.” He lit his pipe, puffing away. “Arthritis. I have pills for it, but the more the arthritis sets in, the less they do.”