There were some signs, of course, that the world was ending.

Sitting in the nurses’ station I sipped instant coffee, listening to a float nurse offhandedly mention that the winds would be kicking up later that day. I looked out the window. It was summer, the wind would be a welcome change.

The next morning was dark. Waking up at 5 a.m., I wasn’t surprised. I bundled up my child to take her to daycare. I needed to get back to the hospital for my shift by 6 a.m. The sky remained dark. I dropped her off with a familiar stranger, walking that tenuous line between providing as a single parent and being absent. She took a blanket with her to nap before school. School was strange these days. My elementary age child used a heavy laptop, more expensive than any I’d ever bought for personal use, to attend classes that should have been just down the block. I kissed her on the forehead and left. The sky was still dark.

Parking on the asphalt field, I and others shuffled in through the delivery entrance for processing. Badge in. Take a mask. Stand in line. State your name to the nurse at the door. Light as a feather, a temperature scan. I have a body temperature of 94.0 degrees Fahrenheit, apparently. In a normal situation that might be alarming. Hypothermia, perhaps. The nurse and I share a look. Shoddy equipment; I am allowed inside the hospital. A hundred employees ahead of me, a hundred follow me. The ritual continues, very few are culled from the herd due to temperatures—we are desperate for staff.

I join my fellows on the third floor, sitting in the nurses’ station. I sip my instant coffee and listen to a report that is always different yet somehow never changes. The sky outside the window is still dark, but the sunrise was ages ago. Lip stained paper cup in hand, I go to the window.

Slowly, horribly, I watch. It is just after 7 a.m., and the planet around me changes. The sky that ought to be a seasonable blue, turns grey, then pink, then a deep orange. Affixed, I cannot look away. I’ve never seen something like this before. The office lights in the building across from me remain the same, small pockets that stand out against the queer filter that has enveloped us. Sniffing, even with our HVAC system I can smell it. I smell the fire.

We are all huddled now, to the window, duties set aside. Earth has become Martian. De-realization sets in—maybe this was always Mars. The staff share a look. Only a couple patients are awake so far, they too are transfixed by the sky. They also drink from paper cups that will leak if used for too long. Breakfast will come soon. More patients awake. The smell of smoke is stronger.

Staff lead a docile line of psychiatric patients from the third floor to the first for breakfast. Those who cannot be docile stay behind. We’ll bring them take out from the cafeteria. Upstairs, we lock the enclosed porch to keep smoke to a minimum. I take wet towels, and stuff them under the drafty doors, filling the inch and a half gap that allows the smoke inside.

The news in the TV room, one of three for the incarcerated I work with, says a wildfire exploded overnight. Looking at the sky that is turning from orange to brown, I believe them. The newscaster, a handsome one, assures viewers that the city is safe. Smoke has made hackles rise on my neck; I do not believe them. Glancing at the patients, I see clenched jaws and anxious pacing. The staff stare at the sky too often, in rapturous, hushed awe. Maybe I am not alone.

The rituals of the day proceed. We take everyone’s vital signs to see if they have become infected somehow in the protective womb of the locked facility. The equipment is the same shoddy brand that said I was a walking corpse earlier. Everyone hates the ritual, but it affords us comfort as well.

See, we are not sick. Things are fine, the testing suggests. Things have not been fine for a while now.

On my lunch I step outside to grab unhealthy food and buy gasoline. Ash has settled on my car hood. I wipe it away with my sleeve, staining it.

The world is aflutter with activity. I’m glad I am grabbing fuel now; the lines are already building up. At the station I glance in my review mirror and the southern horizon is a noxious walnut-brown nearly black color. Even with the recent total solar eclipse, I do not remember the sky being this dark. During that eclipse, the world became hushed, and cool; sparkling with beauty that lasted so briefly. Something tells me this will not be as brief.

I know people who live south of my city, I wonder if they are safe, but there is not much I can do to help. After paying for my fuel, I leave and return to work. My stomach is upset.

Ash falls sporadically from the sky, like a gentle, dark snow. My window wipers flick it away, but more ash returns. I remind myself I am safe.

I have doubled cloth masks over my surgical mask in hopes of filtering out the smoke. Everyone these days has a cloth mask on hand. Some, like mine, are handmade. A friend from elementary school made mine, the print has tropical fish on them. An unexpected and kind gesture.

Walking into work, under the apocalyptic skies I feel like a cosmonaut on an alien planet. Panic is a gentle hum in my chest. If I could flee I would. I look up at my unit on the third floor from the parking lot. They are stuck there, trapped by the government. I take a step. I too, am trapped. An animal fear, sparked by the heavy smoke, is alight in my chest. Now I understand why every doe I’ve seen is wide-eyed; my reflection matches them. Under these silly layers of clothes, a naked, shaking animal hides, desperate to escape.

There is nowhere to run anymore; it is all knocking on our doors. It feels like the end of an era, maybe the end of the world—yet I am still going through the motions of society as it burns. The absurdity strikes me. In my mask, I look up into the alien sky and laugh. Tears well in my eyes. I cannot tell if it is from the smoke, the laughter, or my own exhaustion from the ceaselessly prevalent tragedies that I have seen, and will see every day from now on. The tears soak into my cloth mask, I don’t even need to wipe them away.

I think of my young daughter at daycare, and I step inside the building.

MJE Clubb is an LGBTQIA+ author of fantasy novels, horror stories, and poetry chapbooks. Since 2019, she has published numerous titles and is always actively working on more. Currently, she lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner, children, and pets.