Dinner went on. It shouldn't have, but it did.
The world was ending, or close enough. There was a file folder sitting in my room right now with my father's name on it, a research lab full of people in jars waiting to be burned, and a ticking clock counting down to whatever the hell we were walking into. But the table kept turning anyway, the way tables do. The way life does, when you don't give it permission to stop.
