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no one is around to read it. The other houses in the neighborhood are dark and silent. As far as our neighborhood is concerned, maybe even the entire state, Andrew and I are the end, the Omega. I don’t know if it’s a matter of being pessimistic or simply being realistic, but a whisper keeps sounding in my head: “You have a limited amount of time left. Why are you spending it this way?”
    The other part of me says there has to be something after us. Even after Andrew and I are dead, life will continue. Life always continues. Every other species has been unaffected by what is happening to humans. Most have thrived because of our departure. Maybe, millions of years from now, the world will find new ways to create complex life, or gorillas and chimps will evolve once again. Maybe their evolution will create a beautiful new race of creatures that somewhat resembles man, shares man’s intellect, but has fewer of our negative traits. They won’t be violent. They won’t be so eager to put each other down or to rule by fear. Cynicism won’t exist. Concepts of slavery and bigotry would seem silly to these complex creatures.
    A paper version of the diary would have crumbled to ashes by then. A copy on my computer would be just as useless. Not that I really believe in aliens, but maybe a spaceship will visit our planet, find what has been written, and ensure what happened to us doesn’t happen to them. Or, maybe writing this will help me grasp exactly what is happening around me. I convince myself that is why I sit in front of my computer while my brother sits quietly on the sofa and the wilderness reclaims the land around my house.
    All I can do is tell what has happened and how we responded to it. It is neither an indictment nor a justification of anything that has happened, especially when it comes to my own decisions over the yea rs. And maybe, with it, I can figure out what to do next. But do I write about those things? Of course not. I decided to write about fake lasagna and wet kitchen floors. If an advanced alien species found my diary a hundred years from now, they would either think my journal to be a joke, or they would think I was the world’s stupidest person. What other kind of man would write about pasta instead of the end of mankind?
    Each night I wonder what will happen to Andrew if I have a sudden heart attack and die before him. He would hav, staring blankly at the wall do e a day or two before his nutrient bag was depleted. After that he would slowly go hungry and become dehydrated until he withered away to nothing. He would never cry out for help or drag himself across the floor to the kitchen; he would simply stay in his seat from one day to the next and starve until his organs shut down. Even if he could yell out, who would help him? Now that the Johnsons are gone, our closest neighbors are probably a hundred miles away—much too far to hear if there was an emergency. One of the greatest luxuries my parents had was the ability to pick up the phone, dial 9-1-1, and have ambulances or fire trucks show up within five minutes.
    If only every day could be as good as today. The chores were done by early afternoon, so the rest of the day Andrew and I watched movies. The selections didn’t consist of anything too serious, just a bunch of old action movies where the hero always ends up killing a bunch of bad guys before getting his family back or saving the city. I ate popcorn and drank soda until I was jittery from all the sugar. All in all, it was a good day.
    Sometimes a scary scene comes on when we’re watching movies and I say something like, “I hope you don’t have problems falling asleep tonight,” or, “I hope that doesn’t give you nightmares.” Andrew doesn’t respond, however, and I know I say these things just to hear what it sounds like to listen to a living person, even if it’s just my own voice. Andrew never laughs at the funny parts of the movies or cries at the sad parts. He