The End Has Come

THE GRAY SUNRISE Jake Kerr

Don Willis is forty five years old and has just finished loading his grocery cart. He bypasses the cash registers but pauses at the entrance. A man and woman are fighting over a can of baby formula, blocking the doors. The man punches the woman in the face, grabs the formula, and shoves his overloaded cart through the doors to the parking lot.

A mass of bodies surge forward, their own overloaded carts banging together as they are pushed through the bottleneck. The woman is gone by the time Don makes it to the doors. He takes care not to slip in the puddle of blood she left behind.

Donnie Willis is ten years old and watching a TV show, long forgotten, about rich people doing rich things, and there is a feature about a yacht. It is majestic, with billowing white sails, and colorful flags that adorn a line from the cabin to the bow. Donnie scrambles closer to the TV, as if he could crawl through the screen and onto the boat, surrounded by the sea, the sun, and the beach.

“That’s the home I want,” he tells his dad, who walks over, kneels down next to him, and smiles. He squeezes Donnie’s shoulder and asks, “What do you like about it?”

Donnie explains about the flowing sails, the blue water, the freedom of being alone, the golden beach, and — more than anything — the excitement of being free under the sun and the sky and how he could sail anywhere. “That’s a good dream, Donnie. Don’t let go of it. Live your life in a way to achieve it, and you’ll never regret it.”

Falling asleep that night, Donnie dreams of waking up before the dawn, standing on the deck of his yacht, and watching the sun rise, the sound of seagulls and waves and flapping sails his only company.

It’s too late. The bags of groceries are shaking in Don’s arms. Please don’t make it be too late. Even without official confirmation, the word is spreading everywhere that the asteroid is going to hit North America. Escape is their only hope. He rushes up to his son’s room. They have no time. How desperate will people be?

He walks into Zack’s room. His son is playing a video game, looking bored. “Son, I’m sorry. You know what’s going on, and I’m afraid we don’t have much time. We need to start packing.”

Zack shoots him a glance but pays most of his attention to his video game. “Is this about the asteroid?”

“What kind of question is that?” Don walks over, grabs the VR controller from his son’s hand, and tosses it on the bed. “Of course this is about the asteroid. We need to get to safety. We’re leaving tonight on the Southern Cross.”

“God, Dad. You know I hate your boat.”

Don stares. “What do you mean ‘I hate your boat?’ We need to get away, Zack!”

His son shrugs.

Closing his eyes, Don gets his anger and fear under control. “Zack, this is not a game. We don’t even have time to track down your mom or my family in Austin. We need to get to safety now.”

“Sure, Dad. Whatever.” Zack moves to put his VR controller back on.

“Whatever? Do you have a better idea?” He had worked two full-time jobs over ten years to achieve his dream, and that dream would now save their lives, and Zack’s response was “whatever?”

Zack shrugs. “I just assumed we’d die.”

Don’s anger collapses under the casual acceptance in his son’s voice. “Zack, we can make it. You know that, right?”

A painful pause and then Zack replies, “I guess.”

“Think of the future, Zack.” Don sits down next to his son. “We can get away, and we can survive.” Zack nods, but there isn’t much heart in it. “Think of the future, son. Where do you want to be? What do you want to do? We have to put all this —” Don taps the controller. “ — behind us.” His son’s face is still blank, emotionless. “Don’t you have a dream?”

“I don’t know.” A nonchalant shrug. “To live. I guess.”

Donnie is sixteen and gets through the pain of junior high by clinging to his dream.

The yacht is no longer under his feet; it is moored in the middle of the bay, white and majestic. The sails are furled up and the mast and mooring are elegant in their angles and geometry, a different beauty than the billowing sails. The sky is a sun-washed blue, and the sun itself is bright enough that he can’t really judge its size. It is high above, a background piece that shines light on the new additions to his dream: The girls in bikinis arrayed in front of him on large beach towels with bright blue, white, and yellow patterns.

It is just him and them. They don’t have names, but it doesn’t matter to Don. They adore his yacht, his private beach — and him.

He hasn’t met the girl of his dreams, so these girls are like the sun, the beach, the sea, and the yacht itself — abstractions of what could be. Don looks at the yellow bikini bottom of one of the girls. It is tugged up and reveals her butt in a way that is so much better than a thong, revealing what is supposed to be hidden.

Donnie knows his dream will come true some day. He just knows it.

Don has never seen the marina so full of people. He walks past old dusty boats that had been in long-term storage being cleaned and prepped for use. Larger boats are being loaded with supplies. There is activity at every slip, and the water is crowded with boats heading out to sea.

He stops and holds his hand out in front of Zack. There is a stranger loading up Don’s sailboat.

“Zack, go back to the truck and bring my rifle.”

Zack nods, drops the big military-style duffelbag, and rushes back up the cement path.

He returns a minute later and hands his father the thirty-ought-six. “I loaded it,” he adds.

“Stay here and watch the supplies,” Don says.

“What’s he doing?”

“He thinks he’s stealing our yacht.”

Don checks the chamber as he strides toward the slip. No one notices him, their attention all on the same thing — loading up and getting out. There is a man tossing a few plastic bags onto the back of the boat. There is a small pile on the boat and a larger pile on the dock.

“Okay, buddy,” Don says. The man glances up mid-throw to see Don pointing the rifle at his chest. “Just drop that and get the rest of the bags and toss them back to the dock.” The man looks scared, but doesn’t seem desperate enough to do anything stupid.

“Just loadin’ up my boat!” The man smiles and tosses the bag onto the back of the Southern Cross. “I know you’re probably worried and all, but no need to be stealin’ a man’s boat.” The man reaches for another bag, but stops as Don walks forward.

Don knows at that moment that the world has irrevocably changed. There is no room for debate or weakness. He has a way out for him and his son, and there is no room for discussion, explanation, or negotiation. The stranger holds up his hands. Before he can say anything else, Don swings the stock of the rifle around and slams it into the side of the man’s face.

He stumbles backward, his hands against his head, a stream of red flowing through the fingers of his left hand. He screams, hysterical and shrill, “You fucker! This is my boat! I found it!” He steadies and lowers his hands. He has a gash across the left side of his forehead, but his eyes are clear.

“Take one step, and you’re dead.” Don points the rifle at the man’s chest again. The man moans but doesn’t move. “Is anyone on the boat?”

“No. I’m waiting on my family.” The response is slow and grim.

“Grab your stuff and get out.”

“C’mon, man. I have kids. Maybe we can both take the boat. The owner ain’t even here.”

“I’m the owner,” Don replies, not that it matters. The world has changed. Motioning with the barrel of the rifle toward the boat, he repeats, “Get your stuff.”

The man gathers up his bags from the boat and tosses them with the others on the dock. They appear to contain clothing. Don tries not to think about how big the man’s family is. Not my problem.

After the man clears out, Don and Zack finish loading up the boat. He had hoped to take another trip out to stock up on supplies, but in light of what had just happened, he decides to just head for the open seas after they stow what they have.

The sailboat isn’t huge, but it is comfortable, with a single cabin big enough for two. There are two large padded benches that could act as beds, and a storage area in the hull below.

Don starts to organize things — boxes of food, bottles of water, suitcases, and bags of recently bought supplies. He opens the wooden hatch that leads to the storage area below decks and grabs a plastic container full of painkillers, antacids, bandages, and a desalination kit — all still inside their grocery bags. He takes a step when he hears a shout from behind the boat.

Putting the crate down, Don grabs the rifle leaning against the door frame and walks out. Zack has his hands up. There are two men, their attention focused on Zack. One has a pistol pointed at him.

“Just get going, kid. There’s no reason for you to get hurt.” The man nods over his shoulder up the cement walkway to the parking lot. “Just walk away.” Both look like normal middle-aged men — jeans, tennis shoes, a polo shirt, one has glasses, the other is balding. The only thing out of place is the pistol.

Don puts the rifle to his shoulder and aims at the man with the gun. He is the shorter one and is wearing what looks like surgical scrubs. On another day he’d just be some guy checking on his boat on his way to the hospital, but on this day he is like everyone else, desperate. And he has a gun aimed at Don’s son.

The world has changed. Now there are no options. No negotiations. No discussions to be had.

The sun is high in the sky. The sea is calm. The boat barely moves. Don pulls the trigger. The rest is nothing but image and sound. A spray of red. A shout. Zack stumbling toward the boat. Released ropes. Shouts. Zack taking the rifle from Don and holding it steady as he points it toward the crowd gathering on the slip. The slapping sound of ropes and sails. White filling the sky. Steady movement out into a chaotic bay full of sails and froth and boats avoiding collisions only because they are all heading in one direction — the open sea.

It’s Don’s junior year in college, and the nameless girls in the dream have become a single girl, a classmate named Kiko, and she sways on the deck in a black bikini to the smooth sound of Latin jazz, her hands twisting above her head and reaching toward the sun. Don watches, a beer in one hand. The sky is a pale blue with streaks of white clouds.

The girl would fade from Don’s dream, replaced by someone new, but everything else would remain: The yacht, the open sea, the sun, and the sound of mellow guitar chords matching the flowing sails and the gentle rocking of the boat.

“Oh my God, Dad. Do we have to hear more jazz?”

The music draws Zack from staring at his phone. For once Don is thankful for annoying his son. Zack had called his girlfriend before the ship had left cell phone range, and as her voice faded, he was left just staring at the screen.

“I like it.” Don elbows his son, hoping to draw his attention from the dead man lying in his own blood on the dock, his girlfriend’s final words, and the uncertainty of a future they haven’t even started to grasp. “Come to think of it, I just put it on repeat.”

“Argh. It’s like from the dark ages.”

Don smiles and thinks of bare feet dancing across a gleaming deck. He glances at Zack, whose lips are set in a thin line as he stares into the distance, the phone hanging from his hand.

“You’re right. We should listen to your music. What do you want to hear?”

Zack turns to him and shakes his head. “I’m just kidding, Dad. You know I don’t care about music.”

Don wonders if Zack cares about anything. He was apathetic when he was at home with his girlfriend, surrounded by friends. Here on the boat it seems to be even worse.

“Maybe we should start playing Salsa or music like that,” Don says. “I was thinking we could eventually dock in Rio. You could go dancing with some Brazilian girls.” He smiles, hoping it doesn’t seem forced.

Zack looks at his phone and then shakes his head. “Play whatever you like, Dad.”

“Well, if Salsa dancing isn’t your thing, what else would you like to do when we get back to civilization? Where would you like to live? That kind of thing.” When Zack doesn’t reply, Don adds, “It’s good to think about the future.”

“I’ll think about it when I have one.” Zack turns away and looks toward the horizon, the sun is bright, and the sky is blue.

They are South of the Sargasso Sea and approaching Barbados, searching for better fishing. The trouble is that after the asteroid impact, South American countries had set up heavily armed coast guards to keep undocumented refugees out. The orders were shoot to kill, and the only thing that saved Don on a few occasions was that the patrol boats were relatively small and stayed near the coast. He and Zack had been fired upon several times, and each time Don turned back out to the Atlantic and pursuit ended quickly.

Zack grabs the binoculars from the shelf under the dash and pulls them up to his eyes. His finger adjusts the focus. “Trouble.”

Don takes the binoculars from his son, and focuses on the horizon. It’s a small boat approaching fast. “Shit.” Don doesn’t need a closer look to know that it’s a performance speedboat. The rich kids in the fast boats were the worst. Heavily armed, they weren’t guarding the coast so much as hunting Americans. “What’s it doing this far out?” Don mutters as he hands the binoculars to Zack and adjusts the tack for them to sail dead East and back out to open ocean. “Speedboat,” Zack notes from behind the binoculars, “Two or three on board. Hard to tell with them bouncing over the waves.”

Don nods. “Reef the sails. We can’t outrun them, so I’ll have to scare them.”

“Why don’t I close haul, and beat us East?”

“No. We can’t outrun them. Just keep her steady.”

Zack slams his fist on his thigh. “If we make progress they may just leave. If we just float here we’re sitting ducks!” Before Don can reply, he adds, “Wait, you don’t think I can beat this, do you?”

Don stands up, and pauses before replying. He had been waiting weeks for his son to express any hope, and here it is, only expressed through desperation. He grabs Zack’s arm. “Listen. I know you can sail this boat, but I need us to appear like we’re not afraid. So just keep us steady. If it doesn’t work, you’ll know, and I trust you that you can beat us East.”

Zack nods, lips pursed. Don grabs the rifle and heads out to the stern.

The wind is strong, and the sea is choppy, but soon the boat is floating in relative calm. Zack is doing a good job working the sail. Supporting himself against the transom, Don lifts the rifle and hopes that the rich kids don’t expect them to be armed. Surprise is what he needs.

The yacht crests a wave, and the pursuing boat is much closer than he had expected. Damn, that’s a fast boat. There are three young men sitting behind a glass windshield. The boat drops over a crest, and Don thinks he can see weapons in the hands of two of them.

Wrapping the sling around his forearm, Don lifts the rifle and waits for a clear shot. He is good with a rifle, having spent nearly every summer hunting in South Texas with his grandfather. He is fairly certain he could take out at least one of the men before they consider the sailboat a threat.

Another crest, and he has his shot. The young men are close enough together that hitting one of them was possible even if his aim was off to the left or right.

Sudden inspiration hits, and Don fires to the right of the three men, shattering the windshield but not hitting anyone. Hitting the wide windshield is not only an easier shot, he hopes that the reality of shattered glass in their faces from an armed opponent would scare them without inciting any desire for revenge, the kind of revenge that would burn if he had killed one of them.

Don peers down the barrel, thankful for his Marksmanship merit badge. He looks for the boat. It takes a moment, and there it is. It breaks starboard and turns away from them.

Don stands, slings the rifle over his shoulder, and yells back to the cabin. “Time to close haul, Zack!”

As he steps down into the cabin, Zack asks, “Did you shoot one? They peeled off and turned away.”

Collapsing onto the padded bench, Don lets out a deep breath and lets his son work the controls. “Don’t let up. You’re doing good. We need to get out of here.”

Zack glances over his shoulder at his dad. “So you killed one?” His voice is shaky, and Don fears it’s from excitement.

“No,” he says. “Enough people have died already.”

Don is thirty-five. There are no longer bikini-clad women dancing in his dream. He had married and divorced Maria by then. He doesn’t know what went wrong, but it doesn’t matter — his dream has no room for the instability of relationships.

He traded the sway of tanned bodies on the beach for the gentle rocking of the Southern Cross, moored in a virgin bay, white sand nearly surrounding the boat. The water is so clear he can see manta rays gliding along the seabed.

With age comes comfortable familiarity. The following no longer changes: He gets up early and watches the Milky Way slowly fade from the sky as he sits at the bow of the boat. The sun climbs slowly in the distance, spreading a glittering carpet of diamonds across the caps of tiny waves. His son is there, asleep below.

Don closes his eyes and smells the salt water and listens as jazz music harmonizes with the sound of gulls, canvas sails, and lapping waves.

The Milky Way is gone, buried under a shroud of gray ash. Still, Don spends each morning on the deck of the Southern Cross hoping to catch the sunrise. He glances at his watch. Daybreak was thirty minutes earlier, and the horizon is charcoal rather than black. He squints, but there is no sun. The only difference between day and night is the shade of the oppressive gray draped from horizon to horizon. Shards of black glass surround the boat, an angry sea that hasn’t been calm or blue in months. He rubs his face with his right hand and stands up, bracing himself against chaotic waves. He heads below deck to wake up Zack. It’s another day. One no brighter, no clearer, no better than the one before.

The first storm comes when the asteroid hits. It’s as if the Earth shudders in pain. As the harsh winds blow and the seas thrash, Don is convinced that the yacht will be dashed to pieces. But after hours of being hurled up, down, and sideways, the seas quiet, and he and Zack nurse their cuts and bruises and take stock of the damage.

The winds blew out the windows, which they repair with plywood pried up from the bilge flooring, and Don repairs the jib without much difficulty. The biggest loss was their rainwater-catching basin, which was ripped free and blown out to sea. They replace it with one of their plastic storage bins.

They are better prepared for the next few storms, but the two of them emerge from each one injured and bruised, the boat battered. The worst is when Don dislocates his shoulder. He does his best not to scare Zack, but he is wracked with pain for hours after a loose flogging line rips his arm out of its socket, with each crashing wave grinding his dislocated arm against the surrounding bone.

After the seas calm, Zack takes charge with a sense of purpose that Don has only seen in glimpses between long periods of depression and quiet. He sets his foot on Don’s ribs and pulls hard on his father’s arm. Don’s scream ends with a loud pop and then silence.

Don has spent so much energy keeping Zack positive that his own oppressive depression, seeping into his consciousness little by little, surprises and overwhelms him as they face yet another storm.

The timing of the growing storm couldn’t be worse. He and Zack are weak from lack of food. They’ve drifted South again searching for fish, but the ocean water is thick with the ever-present dirt and ash that falls from the sky, an obscene black snow that poisons everything.

Don is thinking that the fish have finally learned that there is nothing of value near the surface. Maybe the time is right to try a landing. Certainly the government of Brazil or Guyana would not turn them away so long after the impact? But first he has to survive the storm.

It’s the worst yet, a gale or maybe even a full-blown hurricane. Don tries to steer the ship by hand, but quickly gives up as the thrashing waves and raging winds are coming from every direction. Zack stumbles into him, and Don is surprised not to see terror in his son’s eyes. They are grim, but it is a grimness borne of resolve, not powerlessness.

They hold on to whatever they can, their only goal not to break any bones as they are tossed around the cabin. The ship rolls nearly on its side as a steep wave lifts it into the air.

Don holds his breath, hoping the boat doesn’t split in two. As the ship rolls in the opposite direction, he falls back against one of the benches. He breathes out, and the ship slams into another wave, tossing both Zack and Don against the other side of the cabin.

There is a loud crack, and Don looks over to Zack, expecting to see a broken bone or his twisted body. But Zack looks fine. Taking a deep breath to shout, Don yells, “Did you hear that?” thinking that perhaps the mast had finally snapped.

But not before he can get two words out, a searing pain in his chest staggers him. The pain is so great that he can barely see as he clutches at whatever will keep him anchored to the cabin. He feels a hand grasp his arm. It is strong, steady, a grip that won’t let go.

The boat rolls, and Don falls against something hard. He screams. And everything goes dark.

Don is celebrating his fortieth birthday alone, but he is not lonely. The Milky Way fades, and as the sun rises in the distance, he watches dolphins jump from the ocean, welcoming the day with a primal enthusiasm. The bay is as beautiful as ever, but this time there are other boats, and the sandy beach has people lounging on it. He is holding an ice-cold glass of lemonade as the sun’s rays bathe him. The harmonies of Latin Jazz weave among the sounds of vibrant voices, flapping flags, and ice tinkling in his drink. Don presses the cold glass against the side of his face, the condensation flowing in rivulets down his cheek.

It’s not the pain that wakes Don but the cold. He shivers and opens his eyes. Zack is there, his face in shadow, a glowing Coleman lantern sitting on a crate to his left and filling the tight space with light. “Dad, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is a whisper. Don looks around. He is in the bilge. It is cramped, but he is comfortable He is covered in a blanket and surrounded by pillows. The sails and crucial spares have been moved, creating a space for him. He puts his elbow down to lift himself from the berth, but his chest screams in agony. He lets out a groan through clenched teeth.

“You broke some ribs. I moved you here in case another storm comes.” Zack talks while he gently pushes Don back down onto the blankets. “The storm ended shortly after you blacked out.”

Even with his face in shadow, Don can tell his son is proud of himself. He reaches out and squeezes his arm, ignoring the pain. “That’s good, Zack. You did good.”

“I’m sorry it’s cold.” Zack pauses and then continues, “I used all our heating packs. I was worried about you.” He sounds like a father breaking bad news, not a son wondering if he’s made a mistake.

With the sun blocked by dust and ash, the temperatures have plummeted, even in the Caribbean. Snow is not uncommon, and freezing temperatures at night are the norm. There is a difference between dangerous cold and uncomfortable cold. Don realizes the blankets are warm enough and that Zack wasted the heating packs.

“Thank you, Zack.” Though Zack’s face is still in shadow, it can’t conceal his smile.

Don has been stuck below deck for a few days. It’s dark and feels colder. An oppressive hopelessness takes hold of him as he listens to Zack walk along the deck above him. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine the bay, the sunrise, and his yacht. There are glimpses of the scene, but he can’t grasp them, like reaching for a pen under a couch that slips further away each time his fingers brush against it. He strains to raise himself but is overwhelmed by pain and despair. He thinks of his son. Their lack of food. His injury. The cold. The storm.

“Zack!” he yells, ignoring the pain in his chest.

His son scrambles down through the hatch. “What is it, Dad?”

“What time is it?”

“Six.”

“When’s dawn?”

“Seven something.”

“Help me up.”

His son objects, but Don knows with a clarity that doesn’t exist anywhere else in his mind that he needs to see the sunrise. If he can just see the sun cresting the waves, he will be able to look ahead, to know that all is not lost.

“We tried this, Dad. We need to wait for the rib to heal more. You’re in too much pain.”

“Help me up!”

“Dad, we tried this yesterday.”

“ — and the day before. I know.” Don’s voice is strained. “Now help me up.”

His son pauses, shakes his head, and puts his arm behind his father’s back. He lifts him gently, and Don grunts, tears forming in his eyes. Zack gently lowers him to the blankets.

“No! I need to get out of here.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. You will.” Zack squeezes Don’s shoulder. “The fish are back, Dad. The storm got them active. We’ll be okay. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. You just rest here.” Zack turns and heads back up the ladder.

The muted light through the square hatch does little to change the oppressive darkness. This isn’t just his present. It is his future.

“Zack!” Don cries out, desperation in his voice.

His son rushes down again. “Are you okay?”

Don doesn’t answer at first. He knows the answer. His dream is dead. There are no more sunrises. The yacht is black with ash and dirt. The ocean will never be blue again.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He tries to hide the bitterness in his voice. He adds in a whisper, “We’ll make it.”

“I know, Dad.”

Don doesn’t know how to respond. He is the one who doesn’t think they will make it. Before he can say anything, Zack adds, “We’ll be hitting shore soon.”

Of all the things his son could say, this is the one that Don least expects. “Wait —” Don gathers his thoughts, preparing to object or, at least, understand. Where did this thought come from? But before Don can speak, Zack interrupts him.

“The storm, Dad. It nearly sank us. I was on the manual bilge for six hours. Had to plug a seacock. We nearly lost her. But —” Zack pauses. His words are spoken not with fear, but with a calm confidence. “ — the winds, they cleared the clouds — it’s no longer raining ash. And the sea . . . the fish are back.”

“That’s good, Son, but —”

“No, Dad. This is important.” Zack looks up, an intensity in his eyes. He isn’t listening to Don. He is no longer the boy more interested in playing his VR game than escaping the asteroid. His words come out in a rush. “I want to help rebuild. I want to help others get back on their feet. I don’t care where. I really don’t care how. I just want to help make things normal again.” Zack takes a breath and sighs. “Is that crazy?”

Don takes a breath, even as pain pierces his side. He knows the right words. He has practiced them countless times before, and yet never had the opportunity to use them. “You’re right, Son. It is important.” Don turns his head away from his son, and says, his voice steady, “That’s a good dream. Don’t let go of it.”

Zack tells Don that he is charting a course for São Luis. Don still can’t move much. He’s worried that he may have hurt his back or that he has internal injuries. He keeps his concerns to himself as Zack outlines various rebuilding plans. He listens intently, adding commentary every once in a while, but this is Zack’s dream, and Don knows the importance of staying out of the way.

The next morning Zack asks, “Dad, do you think you can make it up on deck?”

Don’s breath catches in his chest, the question a sudden light shone on a dark truth — Don feels better but is afraid to face another dead sunrise. He is living through his son’s dream. His is dead. “Still too much pain.” Zack nods and heads topside.

After three days, Zack stops asking.

Don loses track of time. It is days later, but he isn’t sure how many. Zack climbs down and sits next to his father. “I know something is wrong, Dad.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Don tries to sound nonchalant.

“Then why won’t you come up to the deck?”

“There’s just no reason for me to be up there.”

“I think there is.”

“There isn’t. I told you. It’s okay. I’m just healing. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Dad.” Zack’s gaze is piercing as he looks at Don. “There’s a reason for you to be up there.” Don prepares another objection, but Zack stands up and reaches for Don’s arm, adding, “Sunrise is in ten minutes.”

He grabs his father’s arm. Don hesitates, but realizes that it’s pointless to resist. This new look in his son, he once understood it. It is forceful. Hopeful. His son has found his dream. That Don’s is gone doesn’t matter. He needs to support his son even if it pains him. Isn’t that what a good father would do?

Zack puts his arm around him, lifts him up, and helps Don up the steps. When did he get so big, Don thinks.

“We’re facing West,” Zack says, “so just sit at the stern and watch. You can make it.”

Don focuses on his feet and doesn’t look up as he walks slowly to the helm seat at the stern of the boat. There isn’t much pain, but Don knew there wouldn’t be — it wasn’t the pain that kept him inside. Zack helps him sit, and is quiet as Don closes his eyes and takes a few breaths. I’m doing this for Zack, he thinks.

Don opens his eyes and grips the side of the boat to steady himself.

The sky is black, and there are pinpoints of white. Some of them sparkle. He looks left and right. There are no gray clouds of dust. Don looks at his son. “Where are we?”

“The North Equatorial Current runs South now, Dad. It’s already taken us around the Eastern tip of South America. Didn’t you notice it getting warmer?” Zack is smiling broadly.

Don answers, “No,” but doesn’t think of what he is saying; he is lost in the brightening sky in the distance. The water sparkles as a yellow glow peeks above the horizon. His heart beats faster.

Zack grabs his dad’s arm. “Oh, before it’s too late. Look up there!” Zack is pointing high in the sky. Don looks up at a bright group of stars. “It’s the Southern Cross!”

A sob escapes as Don gazes upon the constellation above him. He turns to the sun rising in the distance. The ocean is a deep blue, not black or ashen gray.

Don glances at Zack. His son is beaming; his dream of rebuilding has already begun.

Don is on the beach, sitting in a weatherbeaten chair, the wood warped and the paint flecking away. Still, it is comfortable and solid. It’s a good chair. The Southern Cross is docked off the pier, the sun glinting off the glass windows of the cabin. It needs a new paint job, but Zack did an admirable job making it presentable. Zack. He is at the edge of the surf with Inez, the two of them sharing a single set of earbuds and dancing to some song that Don can’t hear. He doubts it’s jazz.

But that’s okay. This isn’t his dream.