. . .

Linus Evans stares out a rain-streaked window in his melancholy. The wall bleeds gently behind him. He lowers his head onto the windowsill and sighs.

He makes a little sign. He photocopies it using a photocopier brought to him by his black dog. He posts it here and there.

“Found,” it says. “One boy. May be the antichrist. Looking for someone to read Gothic poetry and love him. Also there is a dog.”

He draws a picture of himself. He draws a picture of the dog. He puts his phone number on it.

Then he waits.

Not far away — just three miles or so, as the crow flies — live Amelia Friedman and her son Tom.

Tom’s almost as lonely, because he knows that he’s going to destroy the world one day.

He tells his Mom. He explains his concerns.

“I made a time machine,” he says, “and had a fabulous adventure in the future. But everyone says, ‘That’s right, Tom! You’re the one who killed off all humanity and warmed the Earth!’”

“And what was I doing?” asks Amelia.

He looks blankly at her.

“I mean, in the future?”

“I killed humanity, Mom.”

She chews on her lip. She says, thoughtfully, “I was probably just in a zeppelin.”

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