When the apocalypse came, it was only soft rain. Gray mist cat-feeting over the mountains, relentless tapping on the tin rooftops, deceptively pleasant splashy puddles and dew-laden blades of grass. People submitted with faint sighs, accepting their doom with cups of tea, pulling the covers up around their necks. Yes, it rained and it rained until everything was choked with life and everyone was quite still.

—That’s what I think about all this rain lately.