The thunder was constant. It never stopped. Sometimes Ezekial could imagine the silence he used to hear. Thirty two years as a librarian, it was a quiet life. Now the Tulsa corridor just stormed, a constant raging sound of fire and tornadoes. He had rescued what he could from his small library, knowledge for a future society. But he often asked if he was delusional, his doubt growing with every lightning strike. Are there children out there? And if so was anyone even spending time to teach them to read?

He hoped so for the alternative was that he wasted his time here, preserving things that only gave history to a time before. And maybe, none of it mattered. None of what came before, and nothing existing in the ongoing storm. Another crack of thunder, another dark cloud on the horizon, pure malevonce, the atmosphere cleaning, erasing the words for the next generation. A windmill of time, and sand, and flood. The story had been told before, and would happen again, but could anyone ever know the conclusion?