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Adam Jordan

Our little town is like stock photography. Then we unwrap our tacos.


My mother waits for me in the car. She applies red lipstick in the mirror. I look in my eyes in mine. Then she rolls the windows down so everything sounds like water outside. Pines foam up on top. Then we order tacos. My mother reaches out the window and the blind cashier reaches out the window. The blind cashier is big and deaf. Then we head to the dentist. On the way our highways lift up off the ground. The tug boats lull beneath us. The airplane walks casually. Our little town is like stock photography. Then we unwrap our tacos. In my taco is a hamburger bun; and in the bun, an egg; and in the eggshell, envelopes; and in the envelopes, pearls. This means something, my mother says to me—these will be your teeth


Lights appeared over I-80 this afternoon, America's longest highway, connecting the Atlantic to the Pacific. Little Hannah Mayes was the first to notice a distant twinkling, in the backseat, pointing up. She doesn't like to talk, she might be autistic, It's very sad, her mother says. Traffic stood still on the salt flats. Student drivers lit emergency kit flares. The lights got brighter, less like stars and more like ball lightning not moving. The fishermen look to the gleaming guts of fish for signs. Parents discuss their kids and The Apocalypse. The sun will set in Mountain Standard Time. The lights won't have moved. They will look less like orbs and more like spotlights shining on us. I will box the rest of my chicken fingers. It's getting late. I have a big day at work tomorrow. We will rise from our seats and cross the room. We will take our coats from the rack, and you will tell me Me too. I have a lot to do tomorrow.

Adam Jordan is preparing for apocalypse in suburban Texas and missing his Ohio home.