_1st Hour - 6th Hour _

My mother screams as the news anchor we’ve watched my whole life tells us that an asteroid will hit the earth in 24 hours. My dad sits at the table with his head in his hands. I put down the book I’m reading and start writing. No plan, just writing.

When my mother finally sits down, she calls her friends. I can hear them screaming through the phone. She starts screaming again. My dad walks back and forth in the backyard, looking at the sky. I stopped writing; no inspiration was coming to me.

Nobody makes dinner, so I have a sandwich. My mother hugs me and my father close, even though we’ve never hugged like that before. She even says she loves us, and we say it back.

_7th Hour - 12th Hour _

__

__

My mother still watches the news, desperately hoping for news of the asteroid going away. But it’s getting closer. Our pets have picked up on her fear: the cat has stopped cleaning himself and the dog hasn’t barked all day. They sit in the corner of the house, near the front door. Sometimes I see the cat look up to the ceiling as if they can see the stars, as if they sense the asteroid coming, too.

I think I can even feel it a little. Did the house just shake? The news tells us it’s closer now, and we don’t have much time. The footage shows people pillaging stores and restaurants, stockpiling foods. My parents spent time in the basement, organizing their canned goods and water. They think we have a chance to survive this. I shrug when they ask me how I’m feeling. Like my father, I’ve been walking back and forth in the backyard at a starless sky.

_13th Hour - 18th Hour _

We’re in the basement now, huddled together as if our bodies can protect us from destruction. A small radio tells us that we have less than ten hours until certain death. Even the cat and dog are here.

My father asks me to say something, to tell him that I’m okay. He apologizes for things he’s done in the past and I say there’s no need to apologize, especially now; none of it ever mattered anyway, when we’ll die like this. I start writing again. I journaled a bit earlier when I was writing, and I pick it up again. I try not to let the sobs of my mother and the pacing of the animals distract me from capturing how I’m feeling on the page.

_19th Hour - 24th Hour _

I’ve written more than I thought I would. I remember that as a kid our teacher used to ask us where we saw ourselves in the future, and I never could see anything. My friends would say firefighters, nurses, teachers, and I would just say darkness. That’s really all I saw. I couldn’t picture a future for myself. Maybe this is why. Anyway, they took me to therapy for it, but I still felt empty most days. Lackluster.

We’ve hugged again, all of us. My mother asks if she can read my journal and I say no, it’s personal, but then laugh because - who cares now? I let her read it, but when she’s reading I start to feel nervous so I ask for it back. She nods sadly and gives it back to me.

The radio tells us the asteroid will be here soon, and then it cuts out. There’s a new sense of fear here now, and I can feel it from both parents and the pets. Above us is silent. I can hear my pencil scraping the paper. We’re just waiting for