Gary had never been bothered by night-shift work. He’d done it for twenty years before all the hubbub. While others across the world freaked out, looting and murdering each other in a panic, Gary just put on his parka and earmuffs and set about creating a stronger shelter. He’d set up an underground greenhouse, and stored as many seeds and canned fruits and vegetables as he could fit into the pantry. His wife, Elsie, helped, but she always seemed off in another world, her eyes so vacant and tired. She’d never quite grown accustomed to working when it was dark out, like Gary had.

“What do you say we go for a dip in the hot springs this afternoon?” Gary suggested, wrapping his arms around his wife who was staring blankly at the packed pantry before them.

“Don’t do that,” she murmured.

“Do what?” Gary asked.

“Don’t pretend time matters. Night and day are a memory. It’s just darkness now.”

The darkness didn’t matter to Gary. When the sun went away, when Earth took off on an aimless course into space, most of the world panicked. The majority of people died.

But not Gary. Gary didn’t panic. He kept a cool head.

He was used to the night-shift.