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Friends, my fellow countrymen, chronically online goblins: lend me your pitchforks for five minutes. I promise to return them duller than you left them.

Last week, the Internet devoured a 34-year-old substitute teacher because, in 2011, she tweeted: “I’m gonna kill my roommate if he leaves another Red Bull can on the coffee table.” Fourteen years later, someone named JusticeServedColdWithFries unearthed it, added the required crying-laughing emojis, and by lunchtime, the woman was unemployed and explaining to her mother what a “ratio” is.

We have built the most perfectly calibrated shame engine in human history. It runs on dopamine, self-righteousness, and the creeping terror that tomorrow it might be you.

It’s faster than the AP, crueler than the Spanish Inquisition, and significantly less forgiving than the Old Testament God, who at least allowed a cooling-off period of forty days and forty nights.

And the list of crimes now punishable by public execution grows ever more impressive. In 2019, something as innocent as owning the wrong chicken sandwich could get you metaphorically beheaded.

Liking a tweet that aged like milk left on hot asphalt is grounds for social obliteration. Using the word “crazy” at any point before Taylor Swift updated the lexicon is apparently a capital offense.

And being born before the invention of nuance? Don’t even bother pleading your case.

Meanwhile, actual billionaire ghouls who buy elections and poison rivers continue to post through it all, safely insulated by the simple wisdom of never having said “retarded” in 2008. Congratulations, humanity: we have optimized morality so efficiently that the only people who suffer are those foolish enough to have once been nineteen.

Now, a confession. I am cancelable on every axis.

I have said every slur you’re thinking of in the lawless hellscape of the Internet. I have laughed at jokes that would now require a 40-tweet passive-voice apology. By current standards, I am already dead.

Come and get me. I’ll wait.

Still here? Excellent.

Because the joke’s on all of us, because the machine doesn’t want justice; it wants content. It needs bodies to keep the outrage economy humming, and when it runs out of obvious villains, it turns inward.

Today, it’s the substitute teacher. Tomorrow, it’s the Queer activist who used the wrong acronym in 2016. After that, it’s you, for that one time you said “I’m so OCD” while arranging your spices.

We are all one unearthed screenshot away from the digital gulag. The only people safe are those who have never been wrong, never been young, never been alive, in other words, nobody.

So here’s a modest proposal: let’s raise the bar.

Before we ruin someone’s life, let the offense be worse than “was a slightly different flavor of idiot than we currently allow.” Let’s demand evidence of actual harm, preferably in 4K, with timestamps.

Until then, consider touching some grass. Hug your mom. Remember that the person you’re drag-quoting into oblivion also has a mom who still thinks they’re a good kid.

Or don’t. Keep feeding the machine. Just know that one day it’ll want a snack, and the only thing left on the menu will be you.

I’ll be over here, deleting nothing. My skeleton closet is a Spirit Halloween superstore, and every door is wide open.

Bring your torches. I’ve got marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers.

Now share this before someone digs up my old MySpace comments.

There’s a fellow I once knew named Jerry who swore he was born to lead. From the time he could tie his shoes, he was in charge of something.

Kickball teams, Cub Scout hikes, and even, on one bold occasion, the neighborhood’s unofficial “Safety Patrol,” which mostly involved telling other kids to stop running near the mailbox.

Jerry wasn’t bossy, exactly, just convinced the world ran smoother when he was giving directions. He was confident, organized, and, as his mother liked to say, “a little too sure for his own good.”

When Jerry joined the Navy, he figured leadership came with the uniform. The first week of basic training, his chief petty officer asked, “You think you’re in charge here, sailor?”

Jerry, never one to miss a cue, answered, “Not yet, Chief.”

That earned him the glamorous job of latrine duty for the week. Nothing like scrubbing toilets to help a man re-evaluate his career path.

But as he worked, something began to shift. The chief wasn’t just barking orders. He was watching. He noticed who was struggling, who was improving, and who needed an extra push.

The ones who led best weren’t the loudest; they were the ones paying attention. By the time Jerry hung up his mop, he’d started to understand that following wasn’t a punishment; it was practice.

Years later, Jerry became a father, and like most fathers, found that parenthood has a way of turning theory into comedy. One Saturday, he decided to teach his young son, Ben, how to change the oil in the family truck.

“Just watch and learn,” he said.

But Ben, determined to be a man of action, slid under the truck before his dad could stop him. A minute later came a metallic clank, followed by a small voice saying, “Dad, I think the oil’s coming out kind of fast.”

It came out all right, fast, furious, and everywhere. Jerry just handed his son a rag and said, “Lesson one, kiddo—sometimes leadership starts with following directions.”

Funny how that stuck with him. Years later, when Jerry moved into management, he recognized the same truth.

The people who made the best supervisors weren’t the ones trying to prove they were in charge. They were the ones who’d taken time to learn, to listen, and to make mistakes without blaming someone else.

He used to tell new hires, “If you want to lead, first learn how to follow without complaint. Pay attention. Watch how good leaders treat people. Then when your turn comes, you’ll already know what works—and what doesn’t.”

Jerry said it with a grin, but he meant every word. Leadership, he liked to say, isn’t about standing in front.

It’s about standing with. It’s also knowing when to speak up, when to stay quiet, when to guide, and when to step aside.

He also had a favorite saying, “If you think you’re leading and nobody’s following, you’re just out taking a walk.”

So when someone once asked Jerry what made him such a good leader, he shrugged and said, “I learned by following better people than me.”

When people hear I once worked as a reporter in Virginia City, they get a faraway look in their eyes, as if I must’ve been hand-fed Mark Twain’s ghost chili recipe or something. The truth is, all I really got was a sore backside from sitting on barstools too long, and a pocket full of quotes from old-timers convinced the government was hiding silver under the courthouse.

Still, folks like to draw the comparison, “Why, you write like Twain!” they’ll say, which is a mighty fine compliment, even if undeserved.

It’s a little like telling a fella who plays the spoons at the county fair that he sounds like Mozart. Makes you blush, but you sure hope nobody asks you to play a symphony.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’d love to lay claim to Twain’s style. The man had a way of making you laugh and wince in the same sentence.

He could take a simple observation, like a frog jumping, and turn it into a parable about human foolishness. I mostly write about frogs jumping and trying not to step on one.

But here’s the thing–I did walk some of the same dirt roads Sam Clemens did. Virginia City hasn’t changed much since he packed up his pen and left — the hills are still too steep, the whiskey’s still too strong, and the stories still come free of charge if you sit still long enough at a saloon’s bar.

You can’t soak that place in without it leaving a stain on your soul, and I guess some of that stain comes out in the writing.

Where I part ways with Twain is the meanness. Twain had a bite, a way of turning his pen into a wasp’s stinger.

He’d jab at politicians, preachers, or anybody with too much dignity to deserve it. My aim is usually lower — more at the little everyday foolishness, like the grocery store moving the cereal aisle or people who think “gluten-free” means “half-price.”

Besides, if Twain were alive today, I figure he’d have a field day on Twitter, and I don’t have the energy for that kind of fistfight. I’d rather sit on the porch, sip my coffee, and write about how my neighbor’s goat keeps breaking into my garden like it’s running for Congress.

So no, I’m not Twain, and that’s all right. Every generation needs its own storytellers, and Lord knows we’ve got enough nonsense to keep us busy.

Twain had riverboats and miners; I’ve got self-checkout machines and HOA meetings. Different scenery, same human comedy.

If there’s a moral to this ramble — and Twain always liked to sneak one in — it’s this — don’t get too tangled up trying to be someone else. Clemens didn’t sit around worrying if he sounded like Dickens.

He just told it straight, with a grin and a sharp elbow. The best I can do is tell it straight with a grin and maybe a soft nudge.

And if once in a while, somebody squints and says, “You sound a little like Twain,” well, I’ll tip my hat, thank ’em kindly, and go back to writing about life.

Because that’s where I live, and that’s what I know. And chances are, Twain himself would approve — so long as I keep the whiskey glass full and the stories honest.

Tom liked to say that the White House was a fine building, with its clean lines, good symmetry, a bit too white for his taste, but it wasn’t where America’s heart beat. He figured that was happening elsewhere, in a thousand kitchens that smelled like coffee and toast on weekday mornings, and in living rooms where dogs weren’t supposed to be on the couch but were anyway.

He’d been reminded of this truth one Sunday afternoon while visiting his old friend, Marty, who’d just retired after forty years with the highway department. Marty’s idea of retirement involved fixing things that didn’t need fixing and giving long speeches about “how this country’s going to the dogs.”

On this particular afternoon, he was lecturing his granddaughter on the proper way to mow a lawn.

“Straight lines, kid. America was built on straight lines,” he said, waving his arms like he was directing traffic.

Tom watched from the porch, sipping iced tea. “You realize,” he said, “the folks in Washington don’t mow their own lawns.”

Marty paused, squinting. “Well, maybe that’s the problem.”

Tom chuckled. “Exactly.”

The conversation turned, as it always did, to politics. Marty believed that the future of civilization depended on the upcoming election cycle.

Tom didn’t argue. He’d long learned that reasoning with Marty was like trying to teach a cat to swim.

But he did offer this thought, “You know, I think the real work of keeping this country together happens around kitchen tables. Not conference tables.”

Marty frowned. “How d’you mean?”

“Well,” Tom said, setting his glass down, “it’s parents teaching their kids to tell the truth even when it’s hard. It’s neighbors bringing soup when someone’s sick. It’s folks showing up for each other. That’s the kind of stuff that keeps America running, quiet work, done without headlines or hashtags.”

Marty’s granddaughter, now sitting cross-legged on the grass, looked up and said, “Grandpa, does that mean I don’t have to mow the lawn?”

“Nice try,” Marty said.

They all laughed, and Tom thought about how much noise the world made these days, with politicians shouting, pundits talking, social media buzzing like a nest of angry bees. But the things that lasted were still whispered in small places: bedtime stories, prayers of hope, even the unspoken kind, and apologies offered over burnt dinners.

He remembered his own father, who never trusted politicians but voted anyway.

“You don’t do it for them,” his dad had said once, “you do it for the country.”

Then he’d gone back to fixing the screen door, which squeaked again two days later but somehow still kept the flies out. That was America, Tom figured, imperfect but always being repaired.

As the sun dropped behind Marty’s house, lighting up the sky in streaks of orange and gold, Tom felt that quiet kind of gratitude you can’t tweet about. The family gathered on the porch, passing around slices of peach pie. Someone turned on the radio, and an old song from the ‘70s played, something about believing in love and better days.

Marty tapped his fork against his plate. “You really think it doesn’t matter who’s in the White House?”

“Oh, it matters some,” Tom said. “But not near as much as who’s sitting at your dinner table.”

Marty nodded slowly. “Guess that means I better be on my best behavior, then.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Tom said with a grin.

And as the laughter rolled across the porch, fireflies blinking in the yard, it seemed clear enough: America’s real success was being written not in speeches or laws, but in evenings just like that one, where people cared, listened, and loved their little corner of the country the best they could.

That, Tom thought, was the real house of America.

There’s a story that starts somewhere between a spilled cup of coffee and a flat tire on a Tuesday morning. That’s usually how these things go.

Nobody wakes up thinking, “Today, I’ll ruin someone else’s day just because mine’s going sideways.”

But sometimes life lines up all the little dominoes. A rotten night’s sleep, unpaid bills, sore back, and before you know it, you’re knocking them down one by one, right into someone else’s path.

Take Henry Tuttle, for instance. He was a man with good intentions and bad luck, which is about as dangerous a mix as vinegar and baking soda.

He ran the hardware store down on Maple Street, a place that smelled like sawdust, oil, and the faint memory of a better economy. His store was his pride, but lately, sales were off, and customers seemed upset. Everyone wanted something fixed, discounted, or free.

Tuesday morning came like a kick to the shins. Henry was halfway through his second cup of coffee when he tripped over his cat, Pickles, and baptized the kitchen floor in caffeine.

Pickles meowed in protest, loudly, judgmentally, and Henry muttered something not fit for polite company. By the time he got to work, he’d already dented his mood beyond repair.

Then in walked Mrs. Fernwood. Now, Mrs. Fernwood had a way of speaking that could peel paint off a barn.

Sweet as syrup to your face, but sharp enough to nick the soul if you weren’t armored. She came in waving a broken garden hose nozzle like a declaration of war.

“This thing’s defective,” she said, her eyebrows doing gymnastics. “I bought it here last week, and now it leaks worse than my ex-husband’s excuses.”

Henry took the nozzle, turned it over, and sighed. He knew exactly what happened.

Someone had tightened it too tightly, which damaged the fitting. Henry also knew Mrs. Fernwood was the sort of customer who’d tell half the town if he didn’t make it right.

“It’s not defective,” he said before he could stop himself. “It’s just damaged by user error.”

The words hung in the air like a bad smell. Mrs. Fernwood’s face turned the shade of canned beets.

“User error?” she repeated. “Well, excuse me for thinking a hardware expert might sell something that works.”

Henry felt his patience snap like a dry twig. “Maybe it would work if people read the instructions,” he said.

The silence that followed could’ve frozen a furnace.

By noon, word had spread through town that Henry Tuttle had insulted Mrs. Fernwood. Business slowed to a crawl.

Henry sat behind the counter, chewing on guilt and regret in equal measure. He hadn’t meant to be rude. He was just tired and bruised by the world.

But that’s the thing about hurt people, they don’t always mean to hurt back. It just slips out, sharp and clumsy.

That afternoon, a teenage boy named Jasper came in looking for a hammer. He was nervous, fidgety, and holding a list written in someone else’s handwriting. Henry caught himself before barking about “being in a hurry” or “kids these days.” Instead, he took a breath.

“Helping your dad fix something?” Henry asked.

Jasper shook his head. “Mom’s making me build a birdhouse. Says it’ll keep me out of trouble.”

Henry chuckled. “Well, a hammer can build or break, depending on how you use it. Let’s make sure yours builds.”

And just like that, the ice cracked a little. Henry found himself smiling again, not the forced kind, but the real sort that starts somewhere deep in the ribs.

Sure, hurt people do hurt people, but healed people can heal them right back.

They say a man’s belief system is like his favorite hat, fits just right, looks sharp in the mirror, and by golly, no one can tell him it doesn’t suit him. Hank Peters was that kind of man.

He believed, firmly and without hesitation, that he was the most logical thinker this side of the Mississippi. He also believed, equally firmly, that everyone else was at least a quart low on common sense.

Now, Hank wasn’t a mean man. He paid his taxes, waved to his neighbors, and even helped Mrs. Blanchard next door fix her porch light when it went out.

But he had a habit, no, a calling, of correcting people. And he corrected them about everything.

Whether it was how to grill a steak, the proper way to fold a map, as he still used paper ones, or the speed at which clouds should reasonably move, Hank always had the final word. So, when the town council decided to hold a public forum on whether Main Street should become a one-way road, Hank showed up early, wearing his favorite hat, a faded ball cap that said Trust Me, I Know Things.

The meeting started civilly enough. A few folks spoke their piece.

Then Hank stood up, cleared his throat like a diesel engine starting in winter, and declared, “Turning Main Street into a one-way road is the dumbest idea since sliced bread.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Hank folded his arms and waited, like a judge who’d already decided the case.

That’s when young Millie, the new teacher at the elementary school, raised her hand.

“Mr. Peters,” she said with a polite smile, “didn’t you once tell me you believe in efficiency above all else?”

Hank nodded. “That’s right. Efficiency is what separates us from chaos.”

Millie nodded thoughtfully. “Well, the traffic study shows a one-way system would cut downtown congestion by forty percent and reduce accidents. Seems efficient to me.”

The crowd turned to Hank, waiting for his rebuttal. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

His hand went to his chin like he was trying to find an argument somewhere in his whiskers.

“Well,” he said finally, “efficiency’s fine and all, but you can’t go changing things just because it looks good on paper.”

Millie tilted her head. “Didn’t you also tell me that ‘progress waits for no man,’ Mr. Peters?”

Hank froze. That was something he’d said, at least three times, to at least as many people. The room went so quiet you could practically hear the dust motes floating.

Finally, Hank sighed. “You know, I did say that.” He gave a slow grin. “And I reckon it’d be mighty inefficient for me to argue with myself.”

The crowd burst into laughter, and Hank tipped his cap toward Millie. “You’ve got me there, Miss. Guess I’ll have to walk home the long way once Main turns one-way.”

From that day on, Hank still corrected people, just not as often. He’d learned that sometimes, the easiest way to sway a person is to let them trip over their own certainty and help them up with a smile.

He told that story for years afterward, usually while leaning on the counter at Betty’s Diner, sipping coffee that could dissolve a spoon.

He’d chuckle and say, “You don’t need to outsmart folks. Just let ‘em hear themselves talk long enough, and they’ll do all the convincing for you.”

And then he’d take another sip and add, with a twinkle in his eye, “That’s efficiency.”

Now, I don’t want to say I have bad breath, but Saturday morning, while I was out in the front yard turning over soil for the fall bulbs, I managed to flip a live worm right into my mouth. That’s right, a whole, wriggling, protein-packed earthworm.

And before you ask, no, I wasn’t trying to start a new diet trend or relive my childhood dares. It just happened.

I was crouched, working that small hand spade like I knew what I was doing, loosening the dirt around the marigolds. The sun was barely up, the air was crisp, and I was in that peaceful half-awake state where you think nature’s your friend. I gave the spade a good flick to shake loose a clump of dirt, and the next thing I knew, something soft, cold, and distinctly alive hit me right in the mouth.

Reflexes are a funny thing. I didn’t stop to think, “Oh, that’s a worm.” My brain just yelled, “Yuck!”

I spat with enough force to set Olympic records. That poor worm sailed across the yard like a slimy little javelin and landed a few inches from a robin that had been minding its own business nearby.

The bird looks at me, then at the worm, then back at me again. You could see it thinking, “Nah, whatever just came out of that guy’s mouth can’t be safe.”

It fluffed its feathers, gave me a look I can only describe as “deeply judgmental,” and flew off. And that’s how I found myself, spade in hand, worm on the ground, feeling like I’d just got shunned by one of nature’s cleanup crews.

I picked the worm up and set it back in the dirt, mumbling an apology like I’d just violated some sacred gardener’s code. The whole thing left me wondering if maybe the robin had the right idea.

After all, if I saw someone spit out what I usually considered breakfast, I’d probably take off too. Then I went inside to rinse out my mouth,

My wife looked at me and asked, “You okay out there?”

“Oh, fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just had a bit of a run-in with the local wildlife.”

She gave me that look, the one that says she’s trying to decide if she really wants to know more. After a pause, she just nodded and went back to what she was doing.

For the rest of the day, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been publicly embarrassed by a bird. Every time I looked out the window, I half-expected to see that robin sitting on the fence, telling the other birds about the weird human who eats worms and then spits them out like a snob sending back soup at a fancy restaurant.

By evening, I decided maybe I’d done enough gardening for one day. I cleaned off the spade, put it in the shed, and gave the yard one final look. The worm was gone — either forgiven and returned to duty or carried off by some less picky robin.

I figure there’s a moral in there somewhere. Maybe it’s about humility, or it could be about being more careful where you point your spade.

Either way, if you ever want to know how bad your breath is, ask a robin. If it flies away, it’s time for a mint.

There’s a battle raging inside me, and I don’t mean that figuratively in the poetic, overly dramatic way writers sometimes lean on when we’re trying too hard to make a point. I mean an honest-to-goodness fight, elbows thrown, dust rising, the kind of scrap that leaves you tired even when you haven’t moved.

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. It started when a spark of creativity lit up in me like someone flipped a breaker labeled “GO.”

Suddenly, I was writing—no, pouring—words onto the page, completing fifteen to twenty stories and articles in about ten days. Ten days.

I wasn’t eating right, barely sleeping, and only remembering to breathe because my body insisted on it. I kept telling myself, “Just this one more idea, one more paragraph, one more story before this fire goes out.”

Turns out the fire wasn’t going out. It was burning me down.

By the end of that stretch, I felt physically sick. My hands were shaky, my thoughts were tangled, and even the soft hum of my computer seemed too loud, too demanding.

So I did something that felt almost violent: I turned the computer off. Not sleep mode—off.

A cold, hard shutdown. And then I walked away from it for a week.

That week wasn’t peaceful. It was more like withdrawal.

I found myself drifting past the desk, fingers twitching, mind drifting toward unfinished ideas. I’d catch myself imagining headlines, opening lines, and closing paragraphs.

My brain refused to stop writing, even when my body insisted we needed to take a break. It was like riding out the last tremors of a storm.

Eventually, though, things settled. I flattened out, and I could think again.

But here I am today, right back at the edge of that same pull. This morning, the urge to plant myself in front of the screen hit me like a tidal wave.

I wanted to sit down and hammer out everything in my head, every story, every scrap of thought. I could almost feel the old mania stretching its limbs, testing the hinges on the door I’d tried so hard to keep shut.

It made me think about Papa Hemingway. He wrestled with his own storms, his own extremes.

I’m no Hemingway, will never claim to be, but I can relate to that relentless internal engine, the one that doesn’t always know when to shut itself off for maintenance. The difference, I remind myself, is that I can see what’s happening.

I can name it, face it, push back when I have to. Awareness doesn’t solve everything, but it keeps me from walking blindfolded into the pit.

So today, instead of letting myself get swallowed by the keyboard, I’m making a different call. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee, strong, hot, the good stuff, and step outside.

The backyard is quiet this time of year. The Aspen out there has lost all its leaves, standing thin and pale against the sky like a piece of old bone, but there’s something about it that’s steady.

I need that steadiness right now.

I’ll sit beneath that bare tree, let the cool air sweep through the clutter of my mind, and give my soul a chance to breathe for me. To remind me that I’m allowed to exist without producing, without typing, without chasing a great sentence.

The stories will wait. They always do.

But my well-being needs tending now. And today, that means going outside, letting the quiet do its work, and trusting that the words will still be there when I’m ready to come back.

John woke to the sound of someone breathing, close. Too close. His eyes blinked into focus, and the shadow of a man stood over him.

John jolted upright. “Who the hell are you? And how did you get in my bedroom?”

The man raised his hands in surrender. “Look, take a deep breath. There’s a lot to take in.”

John’s mind raced as he stepped towards the door. “What are you talking about? And why are you in my room?”

The man’s voice softened. “Dad can’t hear you, John.”

John froze. “Do I know you?”

“Listen,” the man said, stepping closer, his face half-caught in the blue glow of John’s computer screens. “The time machine. It works.”

John’s pulse jumped. “How do you—”

“I know because I built it,” the man interrupted. “It works. I’m from the future, our future.”

The room went silent except for the hum of the machine still running on the desk, John’s prototype, the culmination of five years of obsession.

“You’re saying I invent time travel?” John asked slowly.

The man smiled, “You change the world.”

John laughed in disbelief. “Am I rich?”

“Beyond your wildest dreams.”

John grinned. “No, no, no, no. You’re joking. I’m going to press that button and change everything.”

“Please, don’t press that button,” the man said.

John squinted. “Who are you?”

The man’s voice broke. “Please, don’t.”

“You’re me,” John realized. “You’re me.”

The older John nodded, handing him a business card, “Is it what you were going to call your company?”

“AetherGroup,” John whispered. “Yeah.”

“And you do,” the older version said. “I’m president of AetherGroup.”

John felt dizzy. “What do people think of me?”

“There’s a statue of you,” the older John said. “15 feet high. Just one block from here.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Wow.”

“Built by slaves,” the older man added softly.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“What about Sarah?” John asked, voice trembling.

The older John looked away. “We watch her die after starting the third great vaccine war.”

John’s stomach turned. “No. No, that’s not possible. Sarah’s just, she’s just my friend. And I don’t even believe kids should be given vaccines.”

“Exactly,” his older self whispered. “That belief becomes outlawed. Billions suffer. The world fractures. Nations fall.”

John shook his head, backing away from the machine. “I just wanted to make something that matters.”

“You do,” the older man said. “Too much. You wanted to give the world control over time, but you also gave it a weapon.”

“I start a war? I enslave the planet? I kill Sarah?”

“Our intentions were good,” the man said, voice cracking. “But it spirals out of control. Power always does.”

John swallowed hard, “Can’t we go back and change it all?”

“That’s why I’m here,” the older version said. “Move out of this place. Burn the notes. Forget time travel. Destroy that thing. The world doesn’t need it.”

John stared at the glowing button on the console, the one that promised to start time travel itself. He took a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Good.” The older John gave a weak smile, handing the younger one an engagement ring. “We never gave it to her because I never had the chance.”

John sat there, the machine humming, the button still glowing softly. He unplugged the device, and the hum died. Then he pulled wires from the frame and struck the components with a hammer.

Outside, the first light of dawn touched the horizon, and for the first time in years, John felt the future might still be his to change.

Hours later, on a quiet street, a man named Greg watched from a parked car as John loaded boxes into his trunk. The silence was then interrupted by a cell phone.

“How’d it go with my son?” James asked.

Greg smiled faintly, “He’s moving out.”

“Thanks, Greg. My wife will be happy. See you at work tomorrow.”

Greg chuckled, “See you tomorrow.”

Long after both species, the biological and the born-of-biocore, had spread among the stars, scholars would argue about the Death Curve.
Some said it marked the end of humankind; others, its completion.

Perhaps, they suggested, the graph had never truly reached zero, that the ascending and descending lines had not crossed but intertwined, forming a single continuum.

In the quiet halls of the Lunar Archive, a plaque bore the words of Elena Mirek, engraved in fading gold, “The universe does not extinguish intelligence; it transforms it.”

Beneath that inscription, a small light pulsed once every second, an echo from the first wetware array ever grown. It had been dormant for centuries, yet inside the translucent sphere, a few cells still flickered with faint, rhythmic life.

Their pattern matched the heartbeat of a human child.