Sylvester stretched as only a cat can stretch, front legs out straight, rear legs stretched out behind accompanied by a small groan, then he regrouped, rolled over onto the other side, curled up and went back to sleep. He was in a sunny spot on top of the community woodpile next to the lean-to that was the central structure in the clearing.

Margaret and Mary Alice were there, and the children, and Kathle and Milo, and Toliver and Taffy. Years of wandering had taken them to the safety along creek and stream, along winding mountain valleys and deep river ravines. Down where the hillsides had given protection from the blast, the wind and firestorms, you had to look real hard to see any difference from what it had been before. Up on the ridge and beyond, the shattered and flattened forests and towns and buildings had been had been ground to particle size near the blast centers, bigger pieces further out and knocked over everywhere else. Green growning things had begun to cover it all and in some areas, the scorched earth was no longer visible.

A lot had happened in the last seven years. Periods of fear, horror, despair, hoplessness and depression, lawlessness and violence had given way to relative comfort. A new routine was established.

It’s funny how some things work out. All the major cities had been destroyed completely. Glassy marble sized melted particulate gave them a uniform appearance in the centers, gradually marked by larger lumps and shattered building cornerstones further out and then even larger groups that had been stronger structures and finally, as far as the eye could see, wasteland, shattered and broken, to blend further away into another circle that had once been another large city.

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