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of a wooden Louisville slugger in my even colder hands. I sling the bat over my shoulder like I’m next up to the plate, and open the door that leads into the kitchen.
    I should have rehearsed something to say. “Hi. Hello? It’s me. The man you despise, yet left a mysterious message for last night. I’m just following up by sneaking in through the backdoor with an erection and a baseball bat.”
    The lights in the kitchen are off, but the sun seems a few inches closer today than normal. I’m able to see perfectly well while I wait to disintegrate along with the rest of this town.
    “Hello?” I whisper, carefully choosing the tiles I’ll step on. I’ve snuck out of this house enough times at 3 a.m. to know the sour spots on the floor. You don’t stand a chance in hell on making it through here undetected with a pair of shoes strapped to your feet.
    From the kitchen I find myself in a living room entirely unlived in. This room was solely dedicated to the prospect of having company over, and it was Valerie’s favorite place to fool around. She would kiss me here with a passion undetected in any other location. Something about how forbidden this place was—the fact that Viv had every speck of dust, every fiber in the carpets accounted for—made Valerie want to tear the place apart with our desire for each other.
    I leave the un-living room, a room I never felt so alive in, and check the bathrooms, the office, the back porch. Everything is immaculate, set strategically for show. It was never a wonder to me why Valerie left the day she turned eighteen, so imagine my surprise when Ma told me she’d moved back. This house was so full of rules and regulations that there was never any place for the children.
     
    Arriving at Valerie’s bedroom door, I find it closed and almost knock to be polite, but polite is probably the first thing to go during the end of the world. I turn the knob, pushing the door open with the tip of the bat. I stand at the threshold until the door is fully open—until I can see every corner of her room.
    Valerie is in bed, covers off. She’s wearing only her underwear, with a t-shirt I’m relatively certain belonged to me in high school. I look away—my gut reaction—as though I’ve just walked in on her changing. Her closet is open, clothes spilling out as if she’d stuffed everything she owned inside, and then later, opened it like she’d forgotten where she put it all. I let the grip on the bat slip through my fingers until the head touches the floor. I use it to hold myself steady. I take a few steps into her room. I am underwater and sinking fast, a ship forever lost to the sea. There’s no hope for me now.
    My lips dry, cracking. I run my tongue along them, tasting blood.
    Valerie looks at peace. Hopefully whatever happened to her happened naturally and without pain. Overwhelmed with an onslaught of grief and fatigue, I crouch at the foot of the bed, tucking the bat beneath my chin, a slight sway in my stoop.
    Noticing the phone gripped in Valerie’s hand, I stand, approaching her for the first time in what could be hours since I’ve entered this room. I’ve lost all sense of time the way you often do in dreams. I do not touch for I do not wish to disturb. I’m almost fearful that if I did touch her, she would snap back to life, startling me so, and I might just die next.
    On the opposite side of the bed: a discarded photograph. Leaning over this body once so full of life, this body I’ve been inside of, I snatch it up. Photographic evidence of the life Valerie once shared with me. She’s glaring in my direction, one eyebrow cocked, and my fingers are pistols, locked and loaded. The look on my face clearly says I swear to God I’d shoot her if I only had a gun.
    And Valerie, she’s saying something like, “Go ahead. Make my day.”
    I grip the bat, return the photo. I stand. I swing. The lamp on the nightstand explodes. The alarm clock is next to go. It lets out a shrill