This content is available to subscribers and issue purchasers.
Bernie Jean Schiebeling In the aftermath of the old world, we could still recognize many things. Stoplights, stairs, signs that once scrolled emergency bulletins in eight languages. Buildings with their shattered glass facades open to wind and birds. Cars abandoned in the street, gone to rust and rot, their interiors whorled black and green with household molds. The hulking shell of the weather-gen station, where some of us had staved off the worst of the storms, now cracking and crumbling beneath thorny arms of blackberry and raspberry. And an ice cream stand, overturned and marked with fleeing footprints, its pastel