The end of the world stops and tilts her head, and a moment later he hears it too: soft white noise, rising, as loud as a jet. It’s gone.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Everyone breathing,” she says, “together.”

“Did you want to finish your monologue?” he asks.

“We should go look outside,” she says dreamily.

She descends the steps from the apron of the stage, then walks up the aisle. He looks down to find he’s been writing his notes in white ink. He shrugs and follows her. It’s not hard: the end of the world leaves footprints of dust.