Margie's hair fell out in clumps and the detective still had questions. Outside, the snow and ash fell together in a gray haze over the small, brick walkup. Twenty years ago, who could afford them? Today, who was left to inhabit them? He entered the building and tapped the door with his wedding ring. The couple welcomed him, but the detective stood in the doorway while the Knudson's made small talk about the inability to keep warm.

"Gets any worse I'll have to make a fireplace." Mr. Charles Knudson pulled the rotten flannel coat close to him. His hair was a mere dusting on his head and his stomach the most pronounced feature of his body. He rubbed his hands together and laughed.

"Just throw out the TV and put a fireplace right over there," he said.

The detective nodded.

"You wanna sit down?" Abby asked. He looked at the chair like it was a spring-loaded trap and remained in the doorway.

"No thanks."

Abby smiled, her glasses magnified her eyes and like her husband, time left her with wrinkled features, sunken cheeks, and yellow teeth. People blamed the weather, the sudden shift, for the way everyone seemed to age ten years in one. The detective cleared his throat and she took the seat beside her husband. "I just stopped by for a second, I'm Hugh, by the way." Hugh shut the door, a thin smile spread as he moved to the chair. He remained standing and started kneading his hands.

"That is funny, we never did get your name before," Charles said.

"I don't guess there was ever a good time to." Hugh sat down and gripped the armrest. He leaned forward. "Nice place."

"Compared to what?" Charles asked.

"An efficiency on Boulevard?" Hugh cleared his throat. "Not the roomiest place in town."

"I thought the city paid you guys pretty good?" Charles asked.

"Not like they used to. Besides, I'm never there anyway. There's only four of us for the whole city."

The room was still dim, but the tension was dissipating.

"So, do you know when they'll turn on the street lights again?" Abby said, trying to keep the silence from settling.

"I dunno, it's gets so dark, I wish they would. It may be the end but it shouldn't feel like it." Hugh scratched the back of his head.

"That's what everyone says. Real cheerful," Abby said.

"Well, you people do have a nice place."

"This place is a dump," Charles said.

"The kitchen lights burned out, it's like a horror movie in here," Abby said. Charles jumped in. "Any minute something is going to come out of the dark, I made the mistake of letting Margie watch this one movie."

"How is Margie?" Hugh asked. He sat up and folded his hands on his lap.

Charles said nothing, finally Abby answered. "Same. Same as always." The silence settled. Charles cleared his throat and then said nothing.

"How are the treatments?" Hugh asked.

"She's," Charles said. "She's not responding."

"At least you found a real doctor, most people are lucky to have a faith healer or some other voodoo shit," Hugh laughed.

The silence settled in, Hugh ran his hand across the stubble on his chin, taking careful stock of the questions he needed answers to. The house, though cold, held a warmth and for a moment almost made Hugh forget about their world. He forgot about the walk in the dark, the lack of lights because the grids were too strained trying to keep the heat on, the rolling blackouts that few in his age range survived.

He thought about seeing the rat, just a few yards from the Knudsons' front steps. In the absence of cats and dogs, they filled a niche and quickly. On the news scientists marveled at the rate in which they grew. Most people only saw the ones the size of cats, scurrying in the day.

Working nights, Hugh saw the big ones. The "New Rats" as they were called. The one outside the Knudsons'? Easily the size of a small Labrador retriever, thin, with sleek fur. Despite their reputation for aggression, he never felt afraid. He almost wanted to walk up and clap it on the shoulders. Congratulations, old boy. The place is yours now. You can't do any worse than us.

Looking to the left, ignoring Charles and Abby's attempts at small talk, he saw a room with the door ajar. Margie was in there, the nightlight glowed through the open door. The paint was peeling on the door; the walls on the inside an inviting yellow, a child's room.

His hands fumbled in his coat pocket, running his fingers over the plastic device interred within. "You mind?" Hugh asked, bringing a small, white plastic object out of his pocket.

"Oh, of course not." Charles said.

"I meant to on the way, but I forgot." Hugh shrugged.

"That's fine, we always do ours first thing in the morning, it's so easy to forget."

Charles patted Abby's knee, and Hugh held the device against his forearm. He pushed a button and only winced once, the injection released a fluid which made his arm tense and hand become a weak fist. "Sorry if I upset you guys earlier."

"No, it's okay," Abby said.

It was handheld, oval in shape, and owned by everyone in the city and outside. It gave them a medicine; one that since the gray started to fall has become a necessity, prolonging their life in the dark.

"First thing, huh?"

"Yes sir."

"Margie, too?"

They paused. "Yes, Margie too." Abby said. Charles nodded in agreement. He squeezed his wife's hand.

"Like I said, I just wanted to check on her. After something like that, it can be a very scary thing." Hugh swallowed hard; his hands were clamped together, thumbs rubbed against each other.

"It was horrible, everyone staring," Abby said.

"Glad you were there, got her to the hospital on time," Charles said.

"Yeah, yeah, I was wondering if I could see her. Just for a moment, just to see how she is."

"She's fine, she's sleeping for the first time in a long time. She's been...," Charles said.

"Leukemia, right?" Hugh asked.

"Yes," Abby answered.

"I actually lost a brother...to that disease," Hugh said.

Maybe they saw through the lie, maybe not, but Hugh exhaled heavily and turned away for effect. Hugh always prided himself in being an excellent liar, which he felt made him a natural police officer. But tonight, he was off his game and they knew. Charles stared ahead and his wife nudged him gently. Blinking, he cleared his throat and stood.

"I guess, if you want, we can go in and check on her."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate that." Hugh stood and adjusted his coat collar, following Charles into Margie's room. Abby remained seated.

The door creaked only slightly, the nightlight illuminated from an outlet beside the bed, there were no lamps. Clothes littered the floor and the sheets were covered in smiling, animated faces.

Margie was on her side, her hair thin and gray, and her skin pale, ten going on seventy. They stood by the bed; Charles bit his tongue and fought the lump in his throat. Hugh reached out and patted her shoulder, never taking an eye off Charles. When Charles turned away and stepped out of the room, Hugh's fingers traveled down her arm and he grazed her forearms. In addition to being cold, they were smooth, not a blemish, not a scar, smooth.

Hugh's arms were marked, just as Charles' and Abby's were. Scarred and track marked. The mark of survivors.

Everyone had to take the shots, they wouldn't last long otherwise. But Margie's arms were smooth. As unblemished as he'd seen that day she collapsed in the street, when he wiped the foam from her mouth and screamed for help. He did little more than that, but was hailed as a hero.

He couldn't forget her arms. People wore bands of fabric over their scars, and buried them beneath coats and sleeves. It was a brand, a guilt carried by the survivors, the sixty percent.

"Her arms."

"What?" Charles came back in the room, his mouth trembling. "What did you say?"

"Her arms, there are no marks." Hugh kept his hand on her shoulder, she breathed steady and never stirred. "Why haven't you told someone?"

"The doctors said that she was too weak, they can't run tests," Charles stammered. Hugh grabbed him and Charles started to move to Margie.

"I know someone, she'll be safe," he whispered to Charles.

"She's too far gone."

"I haven't slept, I haven't been to work, since I found out. I've done nothing but search, for someone, anyone," Hugh continued.

"Didn't you hear me?" Charles said.

"Do you know what she is?"

"Yes. Sick." Charles' lip quivered. "Dying."

"She's a cure, she can cure us," Hugh said. His composure fled, his face reddened.

"She can't cure anyone!" Charles yelled. He broke Hugh's grip and sat on the bed beside Margie. She began to wake.

Abby ran in and Hugh pulled a gun. It was cold and department issued, he'd only fired it during exercises. There had been little crime since The Solution. The last desperate solution to the growing heat, the dying crops, the displacement. A mad scheme. Hugh remembered when it failed, sitting on the couch holding his Maureen's hand, before she succumbed from the cold and the sickness. How she laughed, until tears fell and she struggled to breathe. Hugh laughed too, and swore even the grim newswoman cracked a smile. The clouds formed and remained. Gray started to fall, people thought it was the end of everything, so they acted accordingly. But nothing ended except the heat.

"I'm taking her with me, I'm not...I'm not going to hurt her, I'm going to help us." Hugh pleaded, the gun shook in his unsteady hands. Margie cried into Charles' shoulder. Charles kept his arm resting on Margie.

"I found another doctor, a good one. Two doctors in one city, it's a sign! It has to be, he can run the test, he won't hurt her," Hugh said.

Charles didn't move, he didn't even look at Hugh; he just kept rocking his daughter softly. Hugh turned to Abby.

"I'll tell you where he is, you can visit her," Hugh added.

Hugh had tried to remember the last day the sun shone in a clear sky, the last time he was bathed in it. Did Abby and Charles remember? Margie had never seen a clear sky. She only knew dim days and the chaos, one failed government and revolution after another until the world stopped paying attention to the handful scrambling for power and just tried to keep their houses warm.

In the first year, the sickness spread out from the coast and ravaged the country. The medicine was thrown by truck; friends and neighbors tore each other apart in a frenzy for a chance to merely hold the sickness at bay. When he brought a vial to Maureen, she gripped it to her chest and smiled. For a moment, his wife had hope. A cure would never come, they were told. But then Hugh found Margie.

Charles was in the bed, Margie was in his arms. She was awake, her eyes barely open. She never took them off Hugh. She looked so tired. She looked almost bored, unimpressed with the proceedings. The gun wavered in Hugh's hand, aimed at no one in particular.

"No more shots, no more sixty percent. Things can go back to the way they were," Hugh offered.

"Like they were?" Abby shook.

"Please." Charles gripped Margie.

"Like they were?" Abby said.

"When things were good," Hugh said.

"When, when was it ever good?"

"When we saw the sun. When it was warm."

Charles whispered to Margie, he rocked her and sung comfort into her ears. Hugh continued. "When no ever heard of the gray or the sickness, when people weren't animals."

"When we broke the world and it tried to burn us off, you mean? Those days? Nothing changed. Nothing," Abby said. "Instead we're just going to sit by the heaters, until the last one freezes to death."

Hugh held a firm grip on the gun, trying to stop his hands from shaking. "You're not even going to let us try?"

Abby looked to her left, then her right. "Us?"

"Me?" Hugh whispered.

"A cure can't save us," Abby said.

Going to the bed Hugh tried to tear Margie from Charles with his free hand. She screamed, her eyes widened and became alert. Her thin arms wrapped around her father's waist. Charles shook violently trying to fight with Hugh. Abby ran at him. Hugh flinched against Abby's fists, pummeling into his back and sides. Yelling, Hugh stopped. He moved away from them.

"It's not even worth it to try? I don't understand this." Hugh backed up. He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't understand."

He put the gun away. He watched Charles rock his daughter while Abby stroked her back. No sun was breaking the clouds, and no one was praying for the end. No was calling for repentance. The sixty percent were waiting it out; maybe he should do the same.

He thought of Maureen, how they sat waiting for something when the clouds first arrived. How they waited, when she was sick and everything started to fall apart. Drinking coffee, going to work, and paying the electric bill as everything they knew was swept away, until she could wait no longer.

Without a word, Hugh stepped past them and walked outside. He buttoned his coat, what covered the ground never crunched like snow; it hissed with every footfall. He Lowered his head against the wind and watched the shapes his breath made in the evening air. Going home, Hugh resolved to wait, like the others, like his Maureen.