The Wasteland Review’, Aurelia Gonzalez

Illustrations © 2020 Cécile Matthey

 [ Burning, ©2020 Cécile Matthey ] “Hello! And welcome back to The Wasteland Review with Quinton and Bec. I’m Quinton Hurwitz and this is Rebecca Soellers.”


“Now, this is a show about rats.”

“Oh, boy.”

“We here at The Wasteland Review are all about bringing you those tips and tricks for surviving the hostile world outside all of our doors, and today I have just one word for you: rats! They’re small. They’re furry. They’re a good source of protein!”

“Well, you’re in a good mood today.”

“Because I ate a rat this morning!”

“Okay, just to be clear, we are not advising that you eat any creature that eats garbage. No matter how furry.”

“That shows what you know, Bec. Rats don’t eat garbage.”

“Okay. Well, what do they eat, then?”

“Rats are omnivores. Like raccoons, or bears.”

“Uh-huh, okay. And what do raccoons and bears eat?”

“Rats! They’re a good source of protein!”

I find the radio in the back corner of a cabinet, in the kitchen of the house where I make my camp.

The house has two floors. It sits far away from the main road, at the end of a long dirt driveway. It is surrounded by forest for miles in every direction. It looks abandoned.

It seems as good a place as any. I wish I had a better rationale for my choice, but I don’t. I need somewhere to stay, to sleep out of the wind, to store up food for when winter comes. The house is still standing. It has no structural damage that I can see. Most of the furniture is intact. So I settle here.

First I unload the food I’ve been carrying. Two sealed cans, tomatoes and green beans, and three ragged plastic bottles filled with raspberries and highbush cranberries and chickweed. This is all the food I have collected over the past few weeks. I stash it in one of the kitchen cabinets, low to the ground. At the back of the cabinet, wedged in between the dingy white wall and a metal pipe, I find the radio.

It doesn’t look damaged. It has a plain black case, hard, smooth plastic, and a single antenna. Someone must have left it behind. I pick the radio up and turn it on, just to see if it still works. I hear a faint crackling noise, and then a rusty scraping sound. Static. Then nothing.

I set it aside, on the empty kitchen counter, and keep working. Some of the cabinets are empty; one has a set of bowls and cups and plates, dusty but usable. A drawer has a set of silverware in it. None of the canned food remains. The refrigerator smells like rot as soon as I open it, so I close it again and leave it where it lies. I try the sink for running water. Nothing comes out.

That will be a problem later. For now I leave it alone. My hiking pack stays with me. Everything else inside of it stays with me. The cabin seems quiet and empty, but I am not so secure in it that I won’t make escape plans. The kitchen has two doors: a screen door to the outside, on the right of the sink, and a doorway to the rest of the house, on the left. It opens into the living room.

I step further into the house. Dust and silence fill the living room. The carpet, dirty in some spots and moldy in others, squishes under my boots. The sole of my left boot squeaks, wearing thin against my foot. That will be a problem later. I pace back into the kitchen, to the hard dusty tile, and I dig my fingernails into my palms. Something is wrong. I pause in the center of the kitchen, next to the table. Something is wrong. I don’t know what. I don’t know what I need to run from.

When the radio crackles I seize up in terror. I’m ready to run in the few seconds it takes to remember the radio. I look at it, still sitting on the table. It sounds like it should be spitting out sparks. The numbers on the front display scroll back and forth, back and forth. They skip from decimal to decimal with no clear pattern, until they settle on 88.1, and I hear something else through the distortion.

“I do want—talk about—petals.”

I hear the first human voices I’ve heard in months.

“I do want to talk about, uh, rose petals.”

“Are you—is this like a bit? Are you doing another bit?”

“No, I’m serious. Wild rose petals. I’ve been using them for a while, making, you know, tea and stuff.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, actually.”

“I think it works. I used to have a lot of digestive problems—”

“I remember.”

“But they’ve kind of died down lately? I really think the tea is helping. It’s easy to make, too. You boil water, and then you take some rose petals, wild rose petals, and then you crush them all together into a little ball and let it steep for a few minutes. Add a few crushed raspberries, some mint leaves if you have them—”

“Oh, okay. Well, that does answer my question. I was going to ask you how you’re drinking straight rose tea without any sweetener.”

“The raspberries are like a natural sweetener.”

“Yeah, I got that. Frankly, I’m surprised you even went that far. You’re the pickiest eater I’ve ever met.”

“Correction: I was the pickiest eater you ever met. Times have changed me.”

“Well, that’s for sure.”

The voices sound far away and a little distorted through the radio. Turning the volume up clears the distortion, but it makes me nervous. It could draw attention to me. I keep the volume low, but I keep the radio on.

The last time I saw another person I was on the road between Soldotna and Anchorage. She drove a silver pickup truck. I saw her driving toward me and I waved at her and I shouted. She kept driving. The car smelled like smoke and gasoline. It made me cough. She passed me by and the car disappeared and a few hours later I wasn’t sure if it had really happened at all.

The last time I heard another person’s voice he told me the city was on fire. I had smelled the smoke for days at that point, but his voice told me it wasn’t a controlled burn. He told me they evacuated the city. He told me to get in the car with him and drive to Homer if I wanted to find anyone alive.

The people on the radio are alive, I think.

Their voices sound warm. They sound familiar, like they know each other, like they are friends. The broadcast cuts out through patches of static every so often. I can’t tell where they are located. I can’t think of anywhere they could be where they would still have broadcasting equipment. Soldotna was a ghost town when I passed through it. Anchorage is still burning.

I keep the radio with me. I carry it in my backpack when I leave the cabin to hunt for food. I keep the volume low, always, but I keep listening to their voices.

On the second day I learn their names, Quinton, Rebecca, like they’re introducing themselves to me. They broadcast for a couple of hours at a time—sometimes once, in the morning, sometimes twice a day. Sometimes the transmission is weak and I can only make out the broad shape of their voices. Sometimes I don’t understand what they’re saying. Still, their voices are comforting. They make jokes and laugh and ramble about things. Sometimes I find myself laughing along with them. I don’t laugh much anymore. I like how it feels, overhearing this friendship, and I like having something to think about on long walks through the forest.

“What about—Bec? What do you—eat?”

“I like dandelions.”

“Oh, you would.”

“They’re like spinach! They’re easy—eat. And they’re everywhere.”

I don’t eat much. I gather whatever edible plants I can find, and whatever insects I can catch. I search for other buildings close to the cabin, buildings that might have food, but this part of the peninsula is desolate. I forage in the woods. I have to ration the food out, and I have to store up as much as I can. I spend most of my time wandering, searching for food, because if I don’t find enough now, I will starve through the winter.

“Look, it’s—this. Spiders are a little bitter. Ants are really bitter—depending on your point of view.”


“—what you need is some kind of sweet or savory element, something to balance it out.”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Oh, please.”

There must be a lot of insects where these people live. For me catching insects is more trouble than it’s worth. Unless a spider runs right across my path, I usually don’t bother. Plants are larger, easier to find, and won’t run away from me. Dandelions are abundant in the area around the cabin. In the woods, raspberries and strawberries are just starting to ripen, and the leaves make a good salad with dandelions and chickweed. For now my diet is mostly greens. Later in the summer, and in autumn, it will shift to berries. Blueberries, crowberries, cranberries, serviceberries. Then winter will come, and no matter what I do, I will be hungry for six months straight.

“So you take your spiders. You take your ants. You mix them up, and then you throw in some meat. Whatever you have. Maybe some squirrel, maybe some rat.”

“I do like rats.”

“Just a little meat. Not—overpowers the bugs. But enough to taste.”

“Is the meat roasted?”

“Of course.”

“That does sound a little bit good.”


“A little bit good.”

“You should try it. You’d like it.”

Thirteen days after I find the radio, I find something else: a sprawling patch of Labrador tea growing in the woods outside.

I have been striking out from the cabin each day to find food for my stockpile. Mostly I have greens, a few different kinds of berries. I wish I could set a snare, catch a squirrel or a bird and have some meat, but I don’t know how to do that, and I wouldn’t know what to do with an animal if I caught one. I never studied that. I only studied plants, how to identify them and what to make of them, so now plants are all I have.

I didn’t expect to find Labrador tea. It is not a food item, strictly speaking, but as the name implies, I can make tea out of the leaves. Tea makes boiled water more pleasant to drink. It can help me stay warm, and from a patch this big, I can pick enough Labrador tea to last me through the whole winter.

I sit down in the middle of the plants and go to work, pinching off the stiff, narrow leaves and holding them in another plastic bottle. I set the radio down beside me and turn the volume up just enough for me to hear. I haven’t been this excited about anything in my life for a long, long time.

“What I’m saying is, now you have ongoing structural damage that’s actively breaking down what’s left of the buildings. Not just in the university, either. You’ve been outside. You’ve seen the rest of the city.”

“Yes, I have, but—”

“That’s not incremental damage! Remember incremental damage, Bec? That was bullshit. Anyway, I just don’t think you can chalk up all of the observable effects to climate change on its own—”

“Quinton, I am going to strangle you.”

“And I remember the original earthquakes, so you can’t tell me all of this damage was already in place ten years ago because it wasn’t—”

“Who are you arguing with? No one is disagreeing with you!”

“I’m making a point! What, I can’t make my point?”

“You can, I just—you’re getting very worked up about structural integrity and building codes.”

“Hey, it’s still my city. I still have to live here.”

“It’s not so bad, is it? I mean, we still have buildings. And there’s enough food for two of us.”

“We used to have running water, Bec.”

“Well, under the circumstances—”

“That’s exactly my point! For years we had people making models and predictions and forecasts and every single one of them—”

“I’m going to kill you.”

A thunderstorm brews over the peninsula.

I see the smooth dark clouds forming over me from my fire pit out in front of the house. When raindrops start to fall, I gather my food and my cooking utensils and my radio, and move inside. The roof of the cabin is still intact, as far as I can tell, and sturdy enough to withstand a storm.

Rain rattles against the roof as I stow the food and the utensils in the kitchen. Cool, damp air blows in through the screen door. The rain falls harder. The kitchen has no outer door to keep the wind or the rain out, so I move further in, to the living room with the stairs.

The upper floor of the house has two bedrooms, a bathroom with no running water, and a closet full of moldy towels. I have no reason to go up there, and I tend to avoid it. The bedrooms still have personal things in them, books and clothes and furniture. It feels like walking through a graveyard. I don’t know what I might find if I look too hard. I don’t want to find out. I stick to the ground floor.

I sit in the living room and listen to the rain and the radio. The rain sounds soothing when I’m inside, staying dry. I curl up on the carpet, with my back against the mildewed couch. The house creaks and groans in the wind. The radio cuts out in frequent bursts.

“Remember—this show used to—about books? I miss that.”

“Yeah, no shi—Bec. I think we all miss a lot of things.”

“I know. Jeez—just mean it was nice to have—time, every week, where we’d—here with—and we’d just hang out and talk about stuff.”

Hail clatters against the roof. Then the windows. I see it falling on the ground outside. Lightning flashes. The trees shake. Thunder rolls.

The thunder lasts for thirty seconds. Then a minute. It rattles the house like an earthquake. I hug my knees against my chest and wait for it to pass. The thunder fades out, but the house is old. Wooden boards in the ceiling squeak and rattle even after the thunder passes.

The kitchen door slams open and shut.

I freeze. Suddenly every noise is magnified. Everything is too loud. I switch the radio off. I heard rain, wind, and distant thunder. I heard footsteps walking over the hard floor of the kitchen.

I bolt to my feet. I have my backpack with me, on my back as always. The footsteps come closer. I run for the only cover I can see—the staircase—and dash up to the landing as fast as I can, hoping the rain will cover my footsteps.

Another human being steps into the doorway of the living room.

He is taller than me. He has a bag of his own with a single strap over his shoulder. He has a big knife in a holster strapped to his thigh. He has a ragged beard fraught with mud and one of his boots is held together with a strip of cloth tied in a knot. He surveys the living room. I am crouched just a little above his eyeline on the landing, and for a minute he doesn’t see me. I have just enough time to think about running up the stairs, and then he lifts his head, and looks at me.

We stare at each other. His eyes catch on the bag over my shoulder. Then he moves. He lunges at me.

I run up the stairs as fast as I can. His boots thunder on the stairs behind me. Lightning flashes. Everything is noise and light and fear. I run up the stairs and down the hall and through the doorway and then he grabs me and pulls me back. I try to catch my balance but I can’t. I land hard on my back. He stands over me. He pulls out his knife.

I scream. The lightning flashes again. I scramble away from him, across the floor. I stumble onto my feet, but he grabs me again. He grabs my backpack and tears at it, rips it away from me. I struggle and flail but he flips me around anyway and slams me up against a wall. I scream.

I try to run. He pushes back against my chest, his arm along my collarbone. He holds the knife in his other hand. The blade is longer than my hand with a serrated edge. It is a knife made for killing things.

“No! Wait!”

My own voice shocks me a little. I am not used to talking. It shocks him, too. He jerks back. His knife lowers. He blinks. His eyes are deep-set, his skin scored with veins and wrinkles and dirt. I can’t tell the color of his hair. His grip on me loosens. He adjusts his hold on the knife again. I try to kick him.

I hit something soft and he yells in pain. I shove him away from me and run out the door. Down the stairs. I run as fast as I can. I’m not fast enough.

He crashes into me from behind. Something hits me on the back of the head. Before I can recover, he rips my bag away from me.

I can’t lose it. I can’t. My bag has all of my most crucial supplies, my first aid kit and emergency food and water, all the things I wanted to keep with me for safety. I turn around. He’s right behind me, holding my bag. I lunge for it. He swings at me with his knife. He misses. I grab for the bag. While I’m still looking at the knife, he kicks me in the stomach.

All the breath hisses out of my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t find my balance. I double over, trying to breathe, and I feel myself falling. My legs go out from under me. Then he kicks me in the side, and I hear something click. For a second I think he’s stabbed me.

I scream in pain.

He kicks me again and I don’t feel it, because something is stabbing me in the side over and over. He stands over me and then he crouches, close to me, and I see the knife again, hovering over me.

“No! No, no, no—” I can’t breathe. I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. “No, please. No. Please.”

I see his eyes again. I see the bruised purple skin underneath. I try to roll over onto my side, I try to get away, but moving makes it hurt worse. My voice wails in pain. I can’t think. I see his eyes, staring at me. He looks scared.

He looks at me and looks at me. He holds the knife at my neck. I cry. I want to say something, but I can’t think and I can’t move. Thunder rolls overhead. The man looks up. I hear the rain on the roof again, the wind, and it sounds closer.

The man stands up. He snatches my bag up from the floor. He looks down at me.

He stands there for another few seconds. Then he turns and runs out. I hear his footsteps cross through the kitchen. The door opens and closes. I hear the rain on the roof.

My whole torso is on fire. Pain burns under my skin. I don’t have anything to fix it. All my first-aid supplies were in my bag. I drag myself up onto my elbows and try to crawl toward the kitchen. Lightning flashes. Black spots pulse behind my eyes. Everything hurts.

My breath comes slower and slower. I start to feel dizzy. I try to look around the room but all I see is the radio sitting on the floor next to the couch, right where I left it. I reach for it—I feel my fingers brush the black plastic casing—and I draw it to my chest. I fumble for the power switch and flip it on. For a terrible second the radio is silent.

Then I hear a familiar burst of static. It works. I slump back against the couch and cradle the radio in my arms. I can’t see anything now. I am going to pass out soon. I don’t know when I will wake up, if I wake up at all.

“Hey, Bec?”


“Remember Amber?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I want to. We should talk about her. People should know about Amber.”

“People? What people?”

“The people listening. They should know—”

“Stop it, Quinton. There’s nobody listening.”

“What are you talking about? We—every day we go into this tiny studio and we broadcast—”

“I said stop it.”

“—because we think there might be someone out there that’s still alive! That’s what we do. It’s the only thing—”

“Stop it! No one is out there. They’re dead. Or they’re dying. Or they ran away when they had the chance.”


“You’re deluding yourself. There’s no one out there.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you know, Quinton? You barely even go outside. You let me do that, right? You let me go get food and water so you can stay alive?”

“Bec—wait, where are you going?”

“I’m going out. Maybe I’ll find some food. So you can eat it.”

“Bec, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just thought, you know, maybe we should talk—”

“Nobody wants to hear about Amber. No one is listening. There’s no one out there.”

 [ Picking, ©2020 Cécile Matthey ] “I’m out there,” I whisper.

I have been on the floor of the cabin for several hours, maybe a day, with nothing but the radio. I don’t feel hungry anymore. Sometimes I feel sick. More often I feel weak and sleepy. My rib always hurts. I think it’s broken. The pain waxes and wanes, but it still won’t let me move very far in any direction. It hurts if I breathe too deeply. It hurts if I try to lay myself down to sleep. I sit here with my back to the couch instead, in an exhausted haze. I listen to the radio. When there’s nothing on the radio I listen to the wind. I think about how long it takes a person to die.

I am thirsty all the time. I have water in the kitchen; I collected it in bottles and left it under the sink. I don’t know if it’s still there or if the man took it. I wish I had collected some of the rain. I wish a lot of things.

Thinking of water makes me think of food. I have food stashed in the kitchen, or I did. Now I don’t know. I don’t know anything, except that winter is coming and I will never have enough food to last through it. I won’t have matches or bandages or my carving knife. Even if my rib heals, and I can move again, I won’t have time before the snow comes. I won’t be able to find more green food in the woods. When the food runs out, that will be it for me.

After so many months of uncertainty, I don’t like being able to see my future so clearly.

“Hey, everybody. Just Quinton here. Bec is asleep. That’s why I’m being quiet. I just wanted to let you know that we’re not fighting anymore. Sometimes we have arguments like that, but we’re fine. Sometimes it’s hard being cooped up with just one other person all the time. I’m sure you guys get what that’s like. Anyway, Amber was—um, Amber was our audio producer, back when Bec and I had our own podcast. Do people still know about podcasts? I mean, if you’re listening to this now—you’re hearing this on the radio. Podcasts are kind of like that, except they’re recorded. You can pause them and rewind them and listen to them again. Yeah. Um, I meant to come on and tell you all about Amber, but now I don’t know. Bec doesn’t want to talk about her. I don’t think she wants me to talk about her, either. Amber… she died a long time ago. Probably during the earthquake. Or right after that. We don’t know. That’s the other thing. We don’t know when Amber died. Or how. I mean, I don’t really want to know that, but I think Bec might. I don’t know. I’m—I think I’m just going to leave the equipment alone and go to sleep, now. If anybody is out there listening to this, I’m—I’m Quinton Hurwitz. Good night.”

I don’t want to die. I never have. I try to imagine what it will feel like, death, and all I come up with is the fear in my chest. I don’t know what will happen to me. My body will rot away on the floor of this cabin, but I don’t know what will happen to me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be hungry, or thirsty, or tired, either. I want to close my eyes and wake up far away from here. I can’t fall asleep, though. If I fall asleep I might not wake up.

The walls in the cabin are all made of exposed wooden boards. Some of them are loose. A few of them have holes or knots, scattered at random across the wall. There is a leak in the roof. Sometimes I hear water dripping. If I concentrate and look in just the right spot, I can see the water droplets. They fall onto the carpet and disappear. They fall on me, sometimes. I catch the drops in my hands and lick the moisture from my skin. I count the seconds in between. I try to find a pattern, a rhythm, a promise that more water is coming. It never quite makes sense.

My radio is dying, just like I am. The volume is quieter and quieter. I can’t turn it up anymore. I am scared of what will happen when the batteries run out, but I can’t bring myself to turn it off. The silence makes my skin crawl. Any sound could be another person in the house, another person coming to kill me. I need the radio. I need the static to know that someone is alive out there, far away from me, but still looking for a way out.

“I don’t know. I have slept outside before. You know, I’ve gone camping. Remember camping? I always thought the end of the world would be more like that. Like we wouldn’t have buildings anymore.”

“Well, pretty soon we won’t.”

“Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying. I hope you like sleeping in tents—”

“No, I’m serious, Quinton. We’re staying on topic.”

“Fine. Fine.”

“Sleeping shelters.”

“Right, okay. Tents. I don’t have a lot of experience with tents.”

“You’re useless.”

“I have experience with back pain.”

My ribs heal.

I think it happens slowly, so I don’t notice. Only one day I wake up out of an agitated half-sleep and I can breathe again. I test it in intervals. I breathe in. My lungs lift against my rib cage, my sternum, and I only feel a twinge of pain. I straighten my spine. I lift my shoulders and my chest. I feel another twinge in the same spot.

It hurts, but I can breathe again. I can move, I can sit up, I can even stand. I cling to the wall and my hands tremble, but I can stand, and I can walk through the living room.

My legs are out of practice. I am tired, though I haven’t moved for days. I stop at the doorway, afraid to leave the wall. I take one step into the kitchen. Then another. Then I don’t have the wall anymore. My body is loose in the air.

I see sunbeams falling across the kitchen floor. Then I see the bottles and cans scattered in between them. All my food supply, strewn across the floor. I can see at a glance that much of it is gone. The chickweed is still here, the dandelions, the raspberry leaves, and rusted cans of vegetables. I don’t see any of the berries that I spent hours picking, the cranberries and currants and raspberries. I don’t see any of the water I collected and boiled.

The air smells like smoke.

I stumble through the kitchen, stepping over bottles and cans. The screen door at the other end of the room is still unlocked. It swings open under my hand. The sky is grey, tinged with orange, and smoke fills the air outside. It rasps against the back of my throat. My forehead aches and the world bends around me. I see trees again, and grass, and sky.

My ribs hurt. I am covered in sweat and dirt. I haven’t eaten in days. My legs shake with effort as I stand here, staring at the world. I sit down on the porch, wincing at the impact, and grasp the rough boards for balance. I see the sky again, grey and orange, full of smoke. Alaska is still burning.

The air makes me shiver. It is cold, for all the wildfire smoke. Winter is on its way. I have maybe half the food and water I need to make it through. I have no medicine. My clothes are halfway to rotting even while I wear them.

My stomach gurgles. I can feel its emptiness. I don’t feel hungry anymore, but I need to eat. I have food behind me in the kitchen. I stand up. I walk back to the kitchen, bend down to pick up one of the bottles, and sit down again at the table. I remember the radio, next to the couch, still switched on, still playing. At least I still have the radio.

The kitchen door lists open an inch. A cold breeze chases me back through the living room and into the kitchen again, this time with the radio in hand. I shiver. I don’t know what I will do when winter comes. I won’t be able to keep warm. I doubt I’ll have enough food. Right now the idea of going out to forage sounds exhausting. I open the bottle in front of me and spill the dandelion leaves out on the tabletop. I eat them one by one. I try to ignore the taste.

My stomach gurgles again as I swallow the leaves. For an instant I feel lightheaded. Then my stomach rolls. My fingers stutter across the leaves on the tabletop. I need to slow down. I wish I still had some water.

It doesn’t feel good to eat. It doesn’t feel like I imagined it would, sitting on the floor and starving. But it helps. I know it will help. My rib will finish healing and I will go back outside. Maybe I’ll forage again. I don’t have anything better to do in the last days of summer.

The radio plays on. I twist the volume dial as high as it will go. I don’t know when the batteries will run out, when the radio will finally die. It works right now. I eat a few more leaves. I listen.

“I have some patterns that I use, mostly stuff I came up with myself—I guess a pattern’s not gonna be very helpful if someone’s listening on the radio.”

“How would you describe a knitting pattern verbally?”

“Well, I guess it’s like—it’s a list of directions, basically. It tells you how many stitches to knit, how many to purl, and then how many times you should do that. Basically.”

“You could describe them over the radio. I bet someone would write them down. That could be, like, a segment. Rebecca’s knitting corner.”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“It would be cool! We should try it. Get some of your patterns out there, I bet people would appreciate it.”

“Sure. Okay. Maybe next week.”

“Next week. We’ll do it.”

“Any final thoughts on soap?”

“I think it’s gross and I don’t like it.”


“I’m being serious! It smells bad and I don’t want to touch it. That’s like the opposite of what soap is supposed to do. Ergo, it’s bad.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“But you love me.”

“Yeah, you’re my best friend.”

“Thank you.”

“We should wrap up. I want to check the perimeter again before it gets dark.”

“I can’t believe it’s getting dark already.”

“Stay safe out there, everybody.”

“And as always: go in peace, my children. In the name of rate, review, and subscribe. Amen.”

“Okay. I’m cutting you off.”

“We’ll be here tomorrow, same time! 88.1, The Wasteland Review with Quinton and Bec. Even if it is the end of the world.”

© 2020 Aurelia Gonzalez

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