September 19

Mom made us do the dishes in the morning, but it felt different.

Before, drying dishes felt like a taste of normality, as if the ash storms and starving mobs were just a nightmare to be forgotten. But now, manually washing dishes just reminds me of how the dishwasher will never work again, and I don't think I'll ever be able to divorce washing dishes by hand ever again from the end of the world.

Charles came early today, and as soon as I heard his knock, I put on a mask and used Mom and Dad's awkward chair system to hop into our neighbor's backyard to let him in. In the early morning, under the guise of watching the sunrise, just in case anyone asked what I was doing outside, I hid the backpack in the prickly bushes. It wasn't a particularly strong hiding location, considering that all of the leaves had fallen off, but as long as no one looked, it was fine.

"What is all of this for?" he asked as he walked through the gate, probably referring to our whole weird get-up.

"My parents are weird," I replied and pointed around at the chair. "This just makes them feel a bit better."

Charles walked around and sat on a bench in their backyard. "Even though I do not support this at all, have you started writing your story?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm not really feeling it."

"By the time you figure your story idea out, we'll all probably be dead," he said and then quickly added. "In, like, a hundred years."

"I just need the right inspiration, you know," I said. "That's why we should move onto your last one, so that it might inspire mine."

"Nope. We are doing yours and we will make progress today," he declared, as if he had any authority. "We are going to get your first word written before fall starts."

"Tell me any ideas that you're thinking about."

I didn't have any new ideas, but suddenly an idea popped into my brain: I should tell Charles about my axe situation with Mom and Dad, but in more abstract terms, to see what he'd do. In retrospect, that was probably not the best of ideas, but I guess it was about the most honest thing that I've done this week, and I think I know what I have to do now.

"Well I've got something," I said. "It's more like a conflict."

"Continue," Charles said, either real enthused or faux enthused. I couldn't really tell.

"Let's say that someone has—"

"Wait, who is this someone?" Charles (rudely) interrupted. "Like a male or female? Young or old? Are you talking about yourself in third person?"

"Who cares? And, no, this story is not me talking about myself in third person," I replied, and he rolled his eyes. "So basically this someone has done something objectively good that has helped people, but it could be perceived as bad by other people—"

"I'm confused," he said, cutting me off again. "Like how can something be objectively good and be perceived as bad?"

"So many things," I said. "Like people doing very suspicious things to get essentials. Or taxes. Choose your whatever analogy, but that's not the point. The point is that they have hid this objectively good thing with a lie, but that lie is about to fall apart, so they have two options. One is that they go and tell the truth and hope that the other people change their minds. The other is that they embark on a risky plan to cover up the lie with another lie. So what would you do?"

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"I think the answer is obvious," Charles said. "Lie more."

"Lie more?" I said. "I thought that you'd be the good guy and choose to tell the truth."

"It feels like telling the truth will just hurt the people around you very pointlessly," Charles said.

"That somebody is not me," I said.

"Sure. Whatever you say," he replied sarcastically. "You're doing a 'I'm asking for a friend' right now, so you might as well just admit that it is you and get more specific, so I can actually deal with your problem."

I ignored his request since the more that I denied it, the more convinced he was that it was me. "But isn't honesty the best policy?"

"Are you doing one of those things where you are playing devil's advocate of your own position to have another person justify it?" Charles asked, and even though I was fairly annoyed, he wasn't exactly wrong. "If so, then tell the truth."

"I'm being serious."

"Okay, fine," he said. "The reason that I think this mysterious somebody should just continue the lie is because being morally right isn't an option anymore. It's better that we survive with a guilty consciousness than die with a clean one. But I don't know about your— sorry, mysterious somebody that we shall call Mr. Anonymous— family situation, so maybe Mr. Anonymous can afford to get hurt physically to be alright mentally."

"So telling the truth is bad?"

"With everything going on, lying is sometimes the only way to make it through."

There was a moment of silence, and I looked down at his shoes, which were filled with more glass shards compared to before. I guess it was at that moment that I started piecing everything together since there was no way that all of the glass came from just the earthquakes.

"God, we're such nihilists. So much for our bright, optimistic future," I said.

"So much for our future," he said. "Fixed that for you."

"That's depressing. Think more positively."

"Can't afford to," he said. "The sun is out, but it's just an illusion that's going to disappear someday."

"That was very angsty," I said with a pause. "So are you sure that I have to lie?"

"So it is you that you were talking about!"

"You know that I meant somebody," I said. "You just keep saying 'you', so I accidentally switched it."

"Sure..."

"You're being more annoying than May right now."

"That's such an honor."

"It's not," I said with a pause before quickly changing the subject since he was getting on my case. "Summer's almost over. Remember the time when we said we'd live this summer like we were little kids."

"Those were the good old days," he said. "It's sad that we're reminiscing about a couple of months ago like it was decades ago."

"Feels like a whole different world," I said. "I guess— I don't really know why we're still doing the bucket list anymore, really since it feels like a relic from a long time ago."

"I dunno. It feels like tradition," he said. "And we have something to work towards even if it's just something as random as writing a book, which we still need to do by the way so you better start coming up with a good idea."

And I guess it's also truthful, now thinking about it, in the smallest ways. Just telling each other our silly dreams and wishes is about the most honest thing there is in this world around us, where lying is what we have to do to survive. This is about the only time when the truth feels oddly enjoyable and actually something I can believe in.

Then, there was a beep from a watch that I hadn't noticed on his wrist, and he looked down. I pointed at it. "Where'd you get that from?"

"It was worthless to the people with supplies," he said. "I found it a couple days back in an old box in our attic, so I decided to keep it."

But I knew that there was something wrong with what he was saying because watches have extremely valuable batteries. And being able to tell the time, especially when winter arrives, will be invaluable since it'll be impossible to see the sun and approximate. There will only be light and dark and grays in between, and time will blend as hours bleed into each other.

It's at that moment when I connected the dots: the increasing glass shards embedded in his shoes, the cuts and nicks on his legs and arms, his new shoes and watch, the shattered windows of all the houses nearby his house, the lack of hunger for the past month or so. There was only one explanation: he and his family were one of the looters.

"I've got to go," he said. "But we will get an idea next week, and we will start writing. Before I leave, just one question: why do you want to write a book, like actually?"

"I just want something for us to be remembered by."

He stood up and nodded. "I think I might have an idea, but I'll tell you next week."

"Be careful," I said, and he gave me a weird look.

I was going to confront him about the looting, and I almost did, but I decided against it because I guess I was too scared of ruining things. I'm worried that he'd think I was judging him and that I'd lose him as a friend, and we'd resume our high school drifting apart. Maybe I'm catastrophizing like usual, but I think it's better to keep this realization to myself. I guess there doesn't seem to be any good that comes from telling the truth.