The next day did not turn out to be a busy day, seeing as that it was a Saturday, one of the only days that Marie did not have to work answering phone calls from angry customers. Being in the meatspace together was strange for Marie and Jones. Marie woke up first, and wasn’t sure how to stop Jones’ snoring. She eventually brewed a pot of coffee out of some of the only grounds that she had in her cabinets. The smell alone was enough to wake them.

The two spent the morning discussing their jobs, because they didn’t have much else to discuss. Marie didn’t have a lot to say about hers. According to her testimony, every day felt basically the same, with each day blurring together into the next. The only reason she remembered that it was, in fact, a Saturday was that her alarm had been automatically turned off. Supposedly, the fulfillment center that Jones worked at had been destroyed in a flood a few weeks ago. They were one of the lucky few who did not have to come into work that day. They chalked this up to a cosmic certainty; said that it was a sign from the universe that they should come to Greater Columbia and visit Marie, to see her play. They had always been the more superstitious of the two, always talking about the alignment of the stars and what have you.

“Did they give you something for the damage?” Marie asked. “For the loss of your job?”

“All they did was offer me relocation to another fulfillment center out in Lonestar.” Jones said. “I would have had to move my entire life anyway, not that I had much of a life to begin with. So, I took all my savings and all my things and made my way out here. The rest is history, I guess.” The life that Jones had before their trek into the east was mostly crowded with mystery until today. Over the course of the afternoon, they told Marie that they had gone to school for journalism, thinking, very daftly, that the pen was mightier than the fog. Then, much like Marie, they dropped out as the air in Angel City was deemed uninhabitable, barring filtration.

Why journalism drew their fancy was deemed irrelevant, though they did reveal that writing had always been a passtime of theirs. In the backpack that they had made their way across the country with was a little spiral notebook, filled with beautiful and cathartic little prose passages. This was on a page that Jones randomly flipped to when their writings were brought up in conversation:

“Bloated bodies, floating on the factory floor.

I’m glad to be alive,

But now there’s nothing more.

Jaundiced eyes staring into my soul.

I’ve lost all control.

This world is a bomb and I can’t cut the cord.”

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“What was it like?” Marie asked. “Seeing all of them.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a new experience or anything.” Jones said. “I’ve seen dead bodies before. A few funerals here and there. One time I ran over an old woman with my car and she was dead before I could do anything.” There was a pause after this. Marie would have been disturbed if it weren’t for the distinct mark of regret in their voice. “But this was different. To see destruction on that scale was something I hadn’t seen since I was a child.”

“Since you were a child?” Marie asked.

“I was just a kid when the war started. A shell hit the house next to me one day when I was watching cartoons.” Another pause. “Some shrapnel came into the window and whatnot. That was my first funeral, the neighbor I had played with twice. I had to wear a suit.” This would not be something that would be mentionable, but Jones was the type of person who would never never never wear a suit for any occasion. Their coat was made entirely out of patchwork, with provocative statements written on each individual patch.

It was during this pause that Marie made a realization. “The war didn’t come to the west coast, especially not Angel City.” She said. “Where did you live when you were a kid?”

“Three miles that way.” Jones said, pointing south. “I went to college after reformation, when the Pan-American Alliance was but a sapling on the international stage.”

“What made you quit journalism?” Marie asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Jones lit a cigarette. “After the car crash, I just lost hope. Spent a lot of time smoking weed and whatever. The crash was really weird. I had only been driving for about a year or so. I was going crazy fast down the freeway and then somebody was turning on and I didn’t have a chance to slow down. Both cars were totaled. The other one did a flip into the air. I was just lucky enough to still be on the ground by the end of it.”

“What did you do?”

“I got out and tried to do something. So did everybody else on the freeway. The oncoming traffic came to a complete standstill and everyone watched as I was trying to pull the girl out of her car. I could feel the warmth leaving her wrists as I did it. After I got her out of the car, we all knew she was gone and I just sobbed.”

“How did you know?” Marie asked.

“Her face was soup.” Jones finished their cigarette and placed the butt respectfully into a small pocket on their patchwork jacket. They dug a fresh shirt out of their backpack and asked Marie if they could bother her for a shower. Marie obliged, and was calmed a tad by the sound of the water trickling down in a sporadic rhythm. Regina sat scratching at the door as Jones was bathing. After their shower, they emerged in their fresh shirt, bright eyed and everything else. It was at this point that Jones suggested getting a meal, something that would constitute as a late lunch or an early dinner.

“Are you sure you want to go out there?” Marie asked. “Things have been crazy since the blackout.” Jones chuckled a bit.

“We’ve spent enough time holed up in here,” they said. “especially you.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“Anywhere.” Jones gestured wildly. “I haven’t lived here in years, I’m sure Greater Columbia has changed considerably since it was squeezed into existence.” They leaned down and pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes out. “I’d prefer somewhere where I can smoke, though.”

“I think I know a place.” Marie said, smiling.