Honey Grove, Texas, United States

July 12, 2024

10:12 PM (CST)

6 hours after The Blink

Rivera’s Prius rattled its way down the gravel driveway leading to her home, headlights sweeping past oak and ash trees that lined the road. She had spent the entire ten minute drive from town hall telling Ryan everything about her property, from its size (two acres) to how long it had been in the Rivera name (twelve years as of May). She even gave a lengthy description of what the place looked like, down to the last detail. Before they even reached the house, Ryan had a near complete mental image of the place: the sandstone sidewalk that wound its way through a thick carpet of bluebonnets and purple sage blossoms; the small plot of hand-tilled farmland Rivera and her husband maintained in the backyard each year and all the meals they had eaten from it; the concrete birdbath in the front yard that a mated pair of indigo buntings returned to every summer to preen their feathers in.

Ryan almost asked her to stop describing it so he could be at least somewhat surprised to see it for himself, but then he realized why she’d done it in the first place, why her words had been so heavy with that strange mixture of pride and sorrow. She didn’t think he ever would see it for himself, at least not as it existed in the golden daylight of her memory. She genuinely believed the Sun was gone for good.

So Ryan let her tell him all about the place.

Eventually the pavement had turned to gravel and the glow of neighborhood streetlights disappeared behind the treeline. The driveway opened up to a large yard and as the Prius’ headlights swept over it, Ryan caught a quick glimpse of the birdbath Rivera had mentioned before the shadow of night dragged it back into darkness. He could make out the general shape of the sidewalk, but the bluebonnets and sage were indistinguishable from the murky black of grass. Most visible was the two-story farmhouse Rivera had described, her words filling in the blindspots outside the high beams just enough for Ryan to build a full picture in his head. Dim light spilled out through the windows of the bottom floor (“the shutters are a faded green, I liked the rustic look”) and cast a warm glow on the shadowed siding of the house (“wooden slats, painted a kind of eggshell color”). The front door (“it has the most beautiful stained glass, came with the house, too”) was set between white posts in the center of a wide porch (“Carlos has the green thumb, so there’s about a dozen ferns and pots of ivy all over the porch”). On the roof (“the tin is the same green as the window shutters, and oh you should hear it when it rains”), Ryan caught the glint of solar panels.

Rivera slowed to a stop and shifted her Prius into park next to a beat-up Jeep decked out with large roof lights and what appeared to be a complete weather station mounted on the back.

“Carlos is a meteorologist,” she explained. “Any time we get a bad storm he’s the first to chase after it.”

The porch light flicked on as if on cue and the blurred silhouette of a man moved from behind the front door glass.

“Home, sweet home,” she said, killing the engine.

Ryan followed her down the flowered sidewalk, up the worn steps, and through the mosaic front door, where he was greeted by the smell of warm bread and garlic. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“Hope you made extra,” Rivera called, closing the door behind them.

“Always do,” a voice answered from further inside the house.

The inside of the Rivera household looked almost more rustic than the outside, with candles and even a few unlit lanterns placed around the house. Everything looked old and slightly rundown but in a charming sort of way, like the house was a living thing that had simply started to age. The wooden floorboards were cracked and buckled in places, the staircase had a concerning sag, and there was a leaning closeness to the ceiling and walls that would have made Ryan feel claustrophobic were it not for the warm photographs and knickknacks covering them. It wasn’t a spacious house by any means, but it was a house that was clearly well-lived in. A home.

“You hungry?” Rivera asked.

“Starving,” Ryan said.

“Good. Carl’s spaghetti is to die for.” She hesitated. “I hope you’re okay with meatless sauce? We’re not big meat eaters.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

From the kitchen, Carlos shouted, “I can’t hear you!”

“We have a guest, dear,” Rivera shouted back, hanging her bag on a hook by the door.

Carlos walked out into the hall from the kitchen. He looked to be a few years older than his wife, a broad-shouldered man with warm brown eyes and salt-and-peppered black hair. An apron was draped over his front and decorated with several tomato sauce stains. “We what—Oh.” He looked from Ryan to his wife and frowned. “So, what, the Sun goes dark and it takes you all of three hours to go out and find a younger man?”

Rivera scoffed. “Please. I’ve got younger men lined up all across the state.” She looked at Ryan. “Don’t quote that.”

Ryan held up his hands. “Quote what?”

Rivera smiled. “Ryan, this is my husband, Carlos. Carlos, Ryan. He’s a writer for the Herald.”

“A reporter,” Carlos said with a quick and uncertain glance to his wife. He extended his hand.

“Afraid so,” Ryan said, shaking Carlos’ hand. He didn’t miss the guarded wariness in the man’s voice, as if this wasn’t his first interaction with a random reporter showing up at his door. Ryan smiled in an attempt to put Carlos’ mind at ease. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“With the Sun?” Carlos waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

For a second Ryan was at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected to hear such a drastically different viewpoint from the man, the complete opposite of the worried outlook Rivera had expressed at town hall.

“I see you’ve been listening to my wife,” Carlos said, grinning. “That’s a good idea in most cases. Then again, this isn’t most cases.”

Rivera rolled her eyes and moved past them toward the kitchen. “Can we eat already?”

Carlos winked at Ryan and dropped his voice to a whisper. “She’s more hopeful than she lets on, but good luck getting her to admit it. I honestly think—”

“Carlos,” Rivera snapped from the kitchen, “stop talking about me to my new lover.”

---

A few minutes later, the three of them sat around the dining room table before plates loaded with Carlos’ famous meatless spaghetti. For a while, the only sound was of forks scraping and bread crunching, everyone far too hungry to bother with small talk for the moment. Ryan had to admit, Carlos’ spaghetti sauce really was the best he had ever tasted. The garlic bread, homemade and covered in perfectly toasted cheese and herbs, was so good he found himself taking the smallest bites possible to make it last longer. He didn’t know if the food was actually as good as it tasted or if this was due to his last meal being the cup of black coffee he’d had for breakfast that morning, but either way it was all Ryan could do to keep his table manners in mind as he ate.

A fourth guest entered the room shortly after they had all sat down at the table, and it was immediately clear that she had no table manners whatsoever.

“Down, Beasley.” Rivera snapped her fingers at the brown and white border collie that had slowly been inching her snout onto Ryan’s leg in the hopes he would drop something. The dog ignored Rivera’s command, her mournful eyes occasionally flicking upward to meet Ryan’s with a startling human quality, as if this was his cue to slip her a piece of sauce-soaked bread.

“Don’t give in to those eyes,” Rivera said, reading his thoughts. “She’s on the road to recovery from being ‘morbidly obese,’ in the words of the vet.” She looked to her husband. “Someone was feeding her table scraps.”

Carlos wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Cooked veggies won’t hurt a dog.”

“What about ice cream sandwiches?”

He shrugged. “She likes them.”

Rivera looked at Ryan as if to say See what I mean?.

Beasley licked her lips and set her chin back down on Ryan’s leg, her amber eyes conveying the saddest story of misfortune and lifelong suffering he’d ever seen. It was no wonder Carlos gave her anything she wanted. How could you not?

When everyone had finished eating, Carlos stood and collected the dishes. Ryan snagged the last corner of bread from his plate and nibbled at the edge of it. Now that he was full, he could safely say it really was the best garlic bread he’d ever eaten.

“Well,” Rivera said as Carlos disappeared into the kitchen, “it’s going on eleven and I’m sure you need time to write up the article once we get the interview done.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I’ve already got a list of questions for you so it shouldn’t take too long. Just need to cover a few of the bases and I’ll be good to go.”

Rivera stood and took Ryan’s empty glass. “I’ll get us some more tea, then we’ll get started.”

He took another bite of bread as she followed after Carlos with their glasses.

Beasley licked her chops again and let out the tiniest whine now that the Riveras were out of the room. With a cautious glance to the hall, Ryan took a final bite of his bread and “accidentally” dropped what was left. Beasley’s jaws snapped around it before it even hit the floor.

Rivera returned a few seconds later with two full glasses of tea, then paused before placing them on the table. “You’ve made a lifelong friend now.” Ryan started to play dumb, but when she nodded down at the dog he knew he’d been caught. Beasley’s tail wagged back and forth across the floor like it was powered by a motor. Or homemade garlic bread. “Her tail only goes that hard when she’s had a snack.”

Beasley’s ears perked up at this word but Rivera ignored her and continued around the table.

“So, you ready to get this thing started?” she asked, sliding a fresh glass of tea across the table to him.

Ryan smoothed the blank page in his journal and clicked his pen. “I hope so.” He took a drink of his tea, then asked his first question.

---

The interview lasted a little over half an hour.

When Rivera had given her final answer to his questions and he had scribbled down the last words of her reply, Ryan leaned back in his chair and flexed his aching fingers. Even with his cramped handwriting, he had ended the interview with over seven pages of notes in his journal and the first signs of a nasty blister on the side of his middle finger where the pen had pressed against it. He flipped through the pages and genuinely felt he’d accomplished something monumental. He hadn’t, in the grand scheme of things, but this was his first official interview working for a legitimate newspaper. Sure, that newspaper was closed until further notice and Ryan had never been assigned the story in the first place, but that made the interview somehow feel like even more of an accomplishment, like he had done what any good reporter would have and pursued the story no matter what.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest if what Rivera had said during the interview came to pass.

Ryan still wasn’t sure if he agreed fully with her conclusion. Not about the science; it was clear she knew what she was talking about when it came to the laws of thermodynamics and the Sun’s earthly influence. He had no doubt that what she said would happen exactly as she had described should night be here to stay. What he took issue with was the one glaring bias she seemed incapable of separating herself from: that the Sun wouldn’t come back. Six hours ago every scientist in the world would have laughed at the idea of the Sun disappearing without a trace. It wasn’t possible. It broke the laws of physics. It was ridiculous. But now that it had happened, it seemed just as arrogant, just as foolish to assume it couldn’t reappear again. The impossible had already happened once today, who was to say it wouldn’t happen again tomorrow?

Yet listening to her talk, Rivera sounded completely convinced that the darkness the world found itself in was permanent.

“Think you have enough?” Rivera asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the table like a thick fog.

Ryan nodded and closed his journal. “Should be more than enough. Now I just have to—” he abruptly stopped and, after a brief pause, closed his eyes and sighed. He hadn’t even thought about how he was going to type up the article.

“What is it?” Rivera asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t have any power.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded. “Sure, you’re new to the journalism game, but that doesn’t mean—”

“No,” he opened his eyes, “I mean at my house. A car wrecked earlier and took out the power line.”

“Oh. I take it you don’t have a laptop?”

“I was planning on buying one after a few paychecks.”

Rivera shrugged. “It’s not a problem. We have a guest room and you can use my laptop.”

Ryan shook his head. “Oh, I can’t—”

“You can,” she interrupted, “and you will. This isn’t the best time to be without electricity.”

She had a point there, especially with what was to come should the Sun stay gone. “Are you sure it’s alright?”

She frowned. “Of course. There’s more space in this house than Carlos and I know what to do with. We’d enjoy the company. And I know Beasley will, too, as long as you keep slipping her garlic bread.”

“I really appreciate it,” Ryan said, feeling embarrassed.

“It’s nothing. Do you need to grab anything from your place tonight?”

“That’s alright, I can wait until morning.”

“Won’t be any brighter then,” Rivera said, and it occurred to Ryan how deeply ingrained the expectation of a sunrise was in his psyche. Even as he made plans to endure the coming days without sunlight, he still expected the Sun to be there. What havoc would endless night wreak on the psychology of a species that had never known such a concept?

“Do you care to make the drive? It’s a few minutes from town hall.”

Rivera stood and pushed her chair in. “Not a bit. I was going to drive you back anyway. Let me tell Carlos then we’ll head out.” She went toward the living room and Ryan got to his feet and drained the last of his tea.

Beasley, who had been lying at his feet during the interview, sat up on her haunches and looked up at him, tail giving a small wag.

“Sorry,” Ryan said, scratching her behind the ears, “I don’t have any more.”

“Ryan,” Rivera called from the other room. “You should come see this.”

He wasted no time going into the living room, his blood turning cold from the nervous tone in Rivera’s voice. Although he knew it was ridiculous, especially an hour before midnight, he glanced out the window anyway in the hopes that Rivera had spotted the first glow of the rising Sun outside.

As Ryan stepped into the dark living room, he saw that the only glow came from the flatscreen mounted on the wall. Carlos sat on the edge of a leather couch, his thick eyebrows uncharacteristically furrowed as he stared intently ahead. Dr. Rivera stood beside him, just as glued to the screen as her husband. Beasley padded around Ryan’s legs into the room, hopped onto the couch, and shoved her snout under Carlos’ arm until he absentmindedly petted her.

On TV, a man in a suit stood before a podium as white flashes exploded all around him, each accompanied by the loud clatter of camera shutters. A banner at the bottom of the screen identified the man as James Bradshaw, the White House press secretary. James nodded, eyes moving over the floor as he listened to a question from the audience of reporters. He took a sip of water from a glass in front of him, his hand perfectly steady.

“I admit there is a lot we still don’t know,” he said, placing the glass down on the podium, “but we’re working hard to change that. We have our top scientists looking over those last images of the Sun and reading data from multiple satellites orbiting the Sun. They will figure out what happened and then we’ll start working to fix the problem. It’s just going to take some time.”

“And how are you planning to fix it?” the reporter asked.

“I can’t comment on that until our science team identifies what the problem is, but we will fix it.”

“What about the planets?”

James looked down at his papers. “I assume you’re referring to the video of Jupiter out of the U.K.? The planets are all still there, from what we can tell, they’ve just lost their spotlight. Our rovers are still sending back data from the surface of Mars, which also disappeared from our night sky, but they’re sending images of starry skies that should be in daylight. Which confirms that at this moment the Sun is the only thing misbehaving.”

The reporters began shouting questions at him, a scene that felt uncomfortably familiar to Ryan and Dr. Rivera. James pointed to someone in the audience and the voices immediately fell silent.

The reporter thanked him and announced his name and news organization, then moved onto his question. “Why haven’t we heard from the President in the hours since The Blink? Is he still at the White House, or has he been moved to a separate location?”

“The President is at the White House,” James said firmly. “He’s been in video conferences with advisors and world leaders all evening, so he hasn’t exactly had time to prepare a speech just yet. But he will, as soon as he has a spare moment.” He paused. “And for the record we’re referring to this as an Extreme Solar Event.”

The chatter rose again and James silenced them with another pointed finger.

“Assuming this lasts longer than a few days,” asked a different reporter, “what do the people of America need to do in the meantime until the problem is fixed?”

Rivera tensed as the press secretary again nodded his head and skimmed over the papers set out on the podium, pondering how best to answer the question. Ryan felt himself go tense as well in the brief silence that followed, knowing the answer to the question and the reaction it would undoubtedly have on the audience.

James looked directly into the camera, his expression serious. “Go on exactly as you were yesterday. Continue going to work and living your lives as you would any other day and I promise things will be back to normal before you know it. What we don’t need to do is hoard more groceries or gas than we need. If you own a business, don’t take advantage of the situation and price gouge. Don’t let this temporary situation cause you to disregard law and order.”

Rivera dropped down onto the couch, head slowly shaking in disbelief. “Here it comes.”

“And whatever you do,” James’ expression softened and he smiled warmly into the camera, “do not panic. I can personally assure you that there is no danger whatsoever to the American people. We’re going to get through this.”