Dust fills the air in swirling, pony-gray clouds as Otto runs his fingers over the ancient grand piano’s chipped keys. He lets out a soft chuckle, sits down, and throws me a glance over his left shoulder.

“Haven’t done this in a while.” His lips twist into a bittersweet smile, which I reciprocate. Ever since the asteroid hit and set half the world ablaze, the few lingering humans just been living solely to survive. No time for pleasure, no time for humor, no time for rest. We’ve gotten so used to it, I think, that we’ve lost ourselves in the struggle; even though Otto and I endured the initial impact, one could argue that we died that day anyways.

Otto turns back around and plays a few chords, as if greeting an old friend.

“Not too bad,” I tease, and he just shakes his head and laughs.

“Come on,” he says, “everyone loves the piano man.” And right on cue, his hands find the beginning notes of the classic Billy Joel song, each one striking a memory I had forgotten how to remember.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,” he sings, voice ringing out like a somber church bell. Swaying slightly, I find his rhythm and join in on the next line.

“The regular crowd shuffles in.”

Together, we finish the rest of the song, his hands dancing across the keyboard, our hearts lifting in tandem. And when the last note fizzes out, we let the silence sit for a while, letting our brightened eyes speak for themselves.

“Come on,” Otto says finally, nudging my shoulder. “Let’s get back on the road.”