Songs for the End of the World - Saleema Nawaz Page 0,4

together. His wife was dead, too. They had two grown children who lived in California. Elliot wondered how long it would be before the children announced the school was closing for good.

He stared at the walls until he had memorized each crack and flaw, every hole imperfectly plugged and plastered over. All the renters who had come before had left their marks. Elliot had never taken pains with his apartment, which meant that the only thing on the walls was a free calendar from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. All at once he understood the value of decorating. He dug out a folder of Noah’s daycare drawings and taped up a few of them with little rolled buttons of duct tape pressed underneath the corners. A blue scribble. A brown scribble. A scribble with all the colours. He felt himself breathing easier.

Quarantine Day Five

It turned out there was a limit to the ceaseless enjoyment television could provide, and that limit was eight to ten hours daily for five days straight. Elliot could no longer tell if the glazed and empty feeling he had came from grief or from sitcoms, and he found himself yearning for a book. He only had a few—fewer than he probably would have had if his mother hadn’t commented on it the first time his parents stopped by. On that occasion, he’d told her that Dory got all the books in the divorce and that he didn’t need to read anymore now that he was an armed pawn of the military-industrial complex. What Elliot didn’t mention was that he had a library card and he knew how to use it. But now he saw the value of having books on hand and ordered some novels online—though no matter which category he browsed, the site kept recommending a book called How to Avoid the Plague, a perversely ironic suggestion that he ignored, especially once he realized the ad was sponsored by Dory’s publishing company.

He found himself spending more time online than he usually did, following the headlines and the sports recaps. He was sitting at his computer that night when an email arrived in his inbox.

Hi Elliot. Hope you’re doing okay. JKG

The display name associated with the email address was the same as the signoff. JKG. Elliot’s first thought was that it came from his friend Jejo. Jejo Galang. Maybe he had a middle initial that Elliot didn’t know about. But Jejo was dead. All of his friends were.

He also knew that JK was a shorthand for just kidding, though it was hard to see how that might apply. It could be a message from someone on the force, if his supervisor had let the news leak. Or it was possible that Johnny, an elderly neighbour on the first floor, had seen the quarantine notice. At any rate, Elliot was glad his predicament seemed to be eliciting sympathy rather than fear. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to react the same way.

Quarantine Day Six

Then Elliot ordered a treadmill. He set it up in front of the window and jogged on it while watching the city, imagining the feel of the breeze on his skin. Ever since he could remember, he had wanted to run, to jump, to move, to not stay still. It had been aggravating for his parents—both academic, sedentary types—to have to deal with his restlessness when he was a child. Gretchen detested anything to do with sports, and though Frank was less opposed, he was bewildered by the passion roused by team loyalty.

Out on the street, there was not yet any outward sign that things had changed. The sidewalks were swarming with teens and joggers and well-dressed women carrying small dogs or briefcases, clopping their way to lunch. Elliot turned up the speed on the treadmill and continued watching the street scene as though the sight alone was proof of the blessed persistence of the commonplace. New York was the first spot where he felt he could linger longer than the time it would take to settle in. The churning pace, the relentless to and fro through the city’s hubs, the very buildings rising to pen him in. It was a place that never stopped moving, which was why he knew he would stay.

* * *

—

Quarantine Day Seven

A week into his quarantine, Sarah called in the evening with an unusual urgency in her voice.

“I think your ex is on the news,” she said.

“Dory?” Elliot’s ex-wife was Sarah’s boss, but he’d made it