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The puddle by the loading dock shows me eating cereal tomorrow morning. Boring.

The stars are going out like candles at closing time, one by one, leaving holes in the constellations I’ve known since childhood.

The first snow always comes on a Sunday. Frank says it’s a coincidence, but I know better.

“Hydroponic Bay 4, final inventory,” I say into my tablet, trying to keep my voice professional.

The thing is mostly teeth and decay, half-swallowed by vines.

The ducks are swimming in perfect hexagons tonight, which is never a good sign.