Me and Casey were the last alive. Now I’m not sure about her. I haven’t seen her in days. The last time I saw her she looked exhausted. The President had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar again, so the election was called off. All hell broke lose, with the requisite fire and brimstone and whatnot. He absconded, and Casey chased after him in a stolen car, careening off into the conflagration. I put down my thesaurus, and kept the porch light on, just in case. Maybe this time it’ll be alright, I muttered, not really believing.