Branson bursts through the door, flaps his arms and shakes, and says, “It’s cold out. Moterfucking super cold. My eyes nearly froze shut on the way from the parking lot.”
Felicity looks at him with her dull, half-closed eyes. “I had a dream,” she nearly sings, “that it would never stop getting colder. That it will drop and drop until the molecules of the airs top vibrating. That everything will come to a stop, frozen in perfect white and blue, a world of statues and absolutes.”
Branson looks at her. “Right.”
That night, he watches the thermometer drop, and worries.