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get the hell off this mountain.”
    She began walking again, which left me no choice but to follow her.

CHAPTER 7
    FOR SEVERAL DAYS, HUNDREDS OF FEARFUL AND CURIOUS PEOPLE went up to the valley rim. When enough of them had returned with confirmation of the dreadful reality, the mood in the valley promptly shifted to alarm.
    But for me? It was almost a relief. No more carrying around a silent burden.
    I still didn’t let on that I’d had advanced warning. And the Deacon didn’t tell anyone either. Suffice to say that what others didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me or them.
    Whether the Professor had been legit or not, he’d been unable to change the minds on his Quorum. Humanity’s stay on Purgatory was coming to an end.
    In the weeks that followed, attendance in the chapel went through the roof. I was forced to allow people to begin spending the night. Who was I to keep banker’s hours, at a time like this? As long as people didn’t leave a mess—excremental or otherwise—I let them stay as long as they wanted. It’s what the chaplain would have preferred were he still alive and able to give direction. I could think of no better use for the place.
    Occasional scout trips to the hills told us that the contraction of The Wall was accelerating.
    By the time The Wall was in the valley floor, and closing at well over a meter per day, I had more people in the chapel than could possibly fit. I began to wonder if the combination of fear and crowding might cause a riot. But my flock was like me for the most part—calm and resigned. Maybe attempting to make some sort of final peace with the universe? Perhaps, also, we were each of us eager for the ultimate escape. It had been years since we’d walked freely on a human world, masters of our own universe. Life in the valley, controlled utterly by the mantes, had been like a living coffin.
    Now it would end.

CHAPTER 8
    CARRYING ON WITH BUSINESS AS USUAL WAS A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. Knowing what was to come left an aftertaste of dread in my mouth each morning. But there was always the same routine maintenance work on the chapel to be done. Rather than neglect my chores, I hurled myself into them with as much energy as I could muster. Keeping busy on productive tasks was just about the only sober way to take my mind off The Wall.
    I suddenly found myself welcoming every little crack in the mortar, hole in the roof, or rotted slat of wood in the doors and shutters. Fixes that might have taken me only minutes before, now took hours. Not because I half-assed them. Far from it. I gave them the attention of a craftsman. Carefully patching and replacing as I went, so that for much of the day my mind was directly occupied.
    A few of the regulars began helping me, and then, more people too. Before long everybody was in on the action. And quite quickly the chapel looked sharper than it ever had before. The place almost hummed with energy—everyone displacing his or her fear into the work itself. Including the grounds surrounding the chapel, as well as my garden.
    We didn’t talk about it, of course. I don’t think we needed to. We could each see it in each other’s eyes. To speak our thoughts would have burst the fragile, necessary bubble of suspended disbelief that seemed to be keeping our manners and our sanity intact. So we discussed our work, and patted each other encouragingly on the back when it seemed a job had been well-done, and at night I huddled on my cot and tried to console myself with the idea that even though the end was near, at least I could say I was approaching the end with dignity.
    Which was more than could be said for others.
    One night I saw a bearded figure shuffle through the chapel entrance. He’d not shaved in weeks and had grain alcohol on his breath.
    That was one rule I chose not to break: no drunks in my building. People who wanted to drown their sorrows in a mug or bottle were welcome to do it somewhere else. I politely approached the man and began