This morning, before heading to work in Jean Morvan's fields, Pierre Marchais paid special attention to the calendar. It was September 23rd.

It had been five months since the world had changed, but more importantly, it was his father's birthday. His mother's birthday was the following week. Joël Marchais was turning fifty-four, and his mother fifty-six. Pierre's own birthday had already passed, and for the first time since leaving his native Normandy, he hadn't received any calls to wish him a happy birthday. At his former job, hardly anyone knew his birthday, although it didn't matter much to him.

He hadn't done anything special that day, not even a slightly better meal than usual. He hadn't even given himself a gift. Pierre had simply continued to do what he had been doing since he arrived in the peaceful commune of Saint-Pabu: working the land.

Equipped with gray rubber boots, he was bending over to harvest the potatoes he had planted when the risk of frost had passed. The area wasn't negligible, but it wasn't comparable to what was allocated for cereal cultivation.

Fortunately, he wasn't alone. There was Jean Morvan, the owner of this plot, with whom he chatted a bit and who was always available to answer his questions when he had them. There was also his wife, Nolwen, and their only son, Killian.

The latter had been a high school student just a few months earlier and had wanted to pursue higher studies in an art school. All his plans had shattered at the time of the blackout, as there were no more art schools, and art itself had become a distraction in a world that could no longer be distracted by anything. Playing beautiful music, painting a beautiful picture, sculpting a beautiful bust with clay; none of this could feed a population. So, he had joined his parents in the fields.

Young Killian was a good boy. Pierre found him honest, hardworking, and very mature for his age. Many young people his age had not accepted as quickly as he had to set aside their passions. He continued to draw, but only after the day's work was done. This usually ended at dusk, like everyone else or almost everyone.

Even though everything took much longer without modern machines, it was inconceivable to work in the dark. Without street lighting, it was impossible to see anything once night fell. Only when the moon was visible could one distinguish the rural landscape.

They had to weed the plot, then make sure the weeds didn't grow back so that the nutrients in the soil wouldn't feed them. They had planted potatoes that had started to sprout, but had cut them to create more plants.

Pierre had rediscovered the simple fact that the potatoes he used to find in supermarkets were just roots that didn't need much to grow and produce new potatoes.

Since July and August, they could harvest the fruit of their labor, but because of their other work, especially the wheat harvest that couldn't wait, they were only doing it now.

The leaves have been burned by the sun, Pierre thought as he dug into the black soil. I hope there will be plenty!

In Pierre's mind, it was a bit like playing the lottery. It was impossible to know in advance what the harvest would be like. Some plants could be generous, and others not. Being so late in the season didn't favor the harvest. If potatoes didn't like the sun to the point of becoming inedible once exposed, they also dreaded moisture.

Fuck! I have many that have started to rot! Shit! And some of them are big!

According to Jean, potatoes grew from spring until mid-summer. The condition of the leaves indicated the most favorable time to harvest them, which was between May and August. September was really the last chance month.

At least we'll be done before winter. Hmm, we would need a greenhouse to be able to produce all year round.

The community couldn't afford to lose even twenty kilos of potatoes, as their survival depended in part on this harvest. They had held out so far thanks to the fishermen, the previous harvest, other vegetables, and fruit trees.

However, there had been a problem with cereal crops: without tractors, farmers had been forced to tend to them by hand. But how? Few of the elders had experienced the period before the green revolution in the middle of the previous century.

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Jean, who owned several plots partly dedicated to wheat and rapeseed cultivation, had been forced to watch part of his fields rot on the spot. Everything had been sown the previous year between late summer and mid-autumn. The harvest would have been good.

Pierre wasn't sure, but he thought he had seen that bear-shaped man cry.

Despite the mobilization of all the inhabitants, including the youngest, not everything could be harvested before the return of the rain. Jean Morvan was far from being an isolated case.

Pierre straightened up and observed the sky with concern. It had become dark and threatening in just a few minutes. A heaviness seemed to weigh on him and the Morvan family.

"It smells like a storm..."

In the distance, to the west, towards the sea, the sky was as black as ink. The wind was also picking up. Pierre hastened the pace to finish before the bad weather arrived.

If he could see the situation from space, he would have seen a monster dangerously approaching the continent. From the ground, it was suspected that there would be a violent storm, but no one knew how terrible it would be. It was the first since the blackout, so everyone was worried.

"Pierre!" Jean shouted to be heard from the other end of the plot, "We need to speed up! We still need to secure the harvest!"

"I know!"

The former trader wore a tired face, yet his determination could still be read despite being partly concealed by a carefully trimmed brown beard.

He hadn't taken the risk of doing it himself and had gone to see one of the two hairdressers in the commune. He had become a farmer, but only for half a day. He helped feed and milk the cows in the morning and took care of the hair and beards of the inhabitants in the afternoon.

Madame Le Gall had given her consent, as she couldn't imagine living without going to the hairdresser at least once every three months. He had made an appointment, and it was with scissors that he had his hair cut and beard trimmed. In the meantime, it had grown a bit, but it was still acceptable. That said, he would never have shown up to work looking like that.

His cheeks were hollowed, dirt covered his face, he had a coarse beard, his hair was too long, his clothes were dirty, and he smelled enough to no longer be able to smell himself.

In five months, the hygiene of the population had deteriorated significantly. Fortunately, they could still wash themselves at the beach. The problem was the salt in the seawater. Like everyone else here, he relied on frequent rains throughout the year to be able to wash properly.

For clothes, however, it was a different story. They no longer knew how to do laundry by hand. It was a skill almost forgotten since washing machines were invented.

Fortunately, among the inhabitants were very old people who had experienced war and deprivation. These people, few in number due to shortages and the deadly heat that had struck them last summer, knew how to manage with the means at hand. One of the elders of Saint Pabu, Yvette Tanguy, almost a centenarian, had passed on to the younger generations valuable knowledge: how to make laundry detergent from ash.

For obvious ecological reasons, Madame Le Gall had formally forbidden the use of liquid detergents. This decision had been made practically the day after the power cut, since these products would inevitably end up in the river, the Aber Benoît, and the sea where they fished every day.

Once every two weeks, Pierre went with his dirty laundry and his small equipment to one of the laundries that had been thoroughly cleaned. It was called the Bous laundry here, probably because it was located outside the commune. It consisted of a simple rectangle dug into the ground bordered by flat stones. It was tedious, but not much longer than using a machine, actually.

The main drawback was that he had to do his laundry at least a day in advance and immerse his hands in cold water for over an hour. In summer, it wasn't unpleasant, but he already dreaded winter.

His hands were slowly getting used to this life of hard work. They were full of painful cracks, red and sore. There were also some traces of burst blisters or ones that seemed about to burst. They simply had nothing to do with what they had been, like their owner.

"Come on, just a little more effort and we'll be good!" Jean encouraged.

His small team didn't spare themselves to finish the work quickly. No one here wanted to be outside when the storm hit them.

Finally, it was done before the storm hit them. There was no doubt that they would be hit full force, as the winds had intensified even more.

Everyone in Saint-Pabu was in the same situation, but the fishermen were the most in danger. They had gone to sea as usual that morning with their small boats and nets equipped with improvised floats since nothing then indicated a storm. Not everyone had returned yet, but those who had managed to come back in time still had to shelter their boats. They were currently more precious than gold, because without them, there would be no fish, at least not in sufficient quantities.

The potatoes were placed in a huge building mostly made of corrugated iron and breeze blocks, not far from the plot. They made a big pile on the concrete slab since there were no machines to put them in sacks. This step wasn't the most important according to Jean, who prioritized harvesting with good reasons. Jean, Nolwen, Killian, and Pierre took a huge blue plastic tarp and tried as best they could to cover the huge pile.

Jean feared that the roof would be damaged and that water would fall on their harvest, which would considerably reduce their shelf life. In the worst case scenario, everything would end up rotting.

"All right, now it needs to stay in place. Find heavy stuff," ordered Jean.

Pierre obeyed without question and picked up breeze blocks, bricks, and an old tire. He placed these objects at regular intervals on the tarp while the others did the same. Then everyone was allowed to leave the field.