The library was one of the last places in the school where the air didn't feel like boiling glue.
The fluorescent lights buzzed weakly overhead. A few of them flickered. Others had gone dim, like they'd given up. Dust hung in the air, and every surface was warm to the touch — but not unbearable.
Samuel stepped through the doors.
Immediately, four heads turned.
Two teachers — the librarians — sat behind the front desk, their eyes hollow but alert. One clutched a book like it was a weapon. The other had a flashlight pointed toward the ceiling.
Two students were huddled near the back, reading or pretending to.
They flinched when he walked in.
"I'm not here to take anything," Samuel said calmly. "Just need a quiet place."
No one argued. No one even spoke.
They simply… nodded.
---
He moved to an empty table near a half-collapsed bookshelf.
Pulled out one of his two notebooks.
Clicked his pencil.
And started writing.
---
Day 1:
The sun didn't rise. It slammed down. Casey died when part of the ceiling gave way. I still see his face.
Day 2–3:
We stayed inside. The room is too hot. Some kids started forming groups. Big Mike controls most of the food. I kept my head down. Ate quietly. That didn't last.
Day 4:
They tried to take my peaches. I fought. Won. Left. Mike put a bounty on me.
He paused. Then flipped to a fresh page.
At the top, he wrote:
---
Environmental Log: The New Earth
Daytime Heat: Surpasses all known extremes.
→ Melts roofing, weakens rebar, turns asphalt to soup.
→ Rocks near windows show signs of slumping (softening under heat).
Nighttime Heat: Tolerable but still hot — like a summer heat wave.
→ Can walk without dying. Sweat-heavy, but survivable.
→ Less risk of molten creatures? (to confirm)
Conclusion:
→ Day travel = near-suicide.
→ Night travel = difficult, but possible.
→ This must mean seasonal patterns still influence intensity.
---
He tapped the pencil against the table.
"If summer's this bad," he muttered under his breath, "what happens in winter?"
Maybe… just maybe… winter would be different.
He looked down at his boots — black, thick-soled, and military-issued. His dad made him wear them, even though they weren't school-regulation. Called them "battle ready." Said they were heat-tested and built to take a blast.
Samuel used to hate them.
Now?
They were keeping him alive.
He wrote:
> "Dad made me wear these. I never asked why. He knew."
---
The pencil paused again.
Samuel glanced around. The librarians had returned to their reading. The students were watching him cautiously. But no one stopped him.
He flipped to a new page and wrote three bold words:
What Happened to the Sun?