The World Ended.
Frankie Didn't.

Chapter 1

​Rosy Skies, Iron Wings

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The crisp air hits my lungs hard, sharp as metal. A thin layer of ice coats the bark chips at the dog park, and Monster’s paws crunch through it with a dull, brittle sound—like frozen cereal.

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The ball drops from his jaws, and as I bend to grab it, he slams into my flank—sleek and sudden, like a penguin diving.

An exasperated grunt escapes me as I spin, catch his scruff, and pin him in one practiced motion. I hold him there while he wiggles, all muscle and stubborn energy.

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At eight months, Monster is already a black-and-white giant—but he’s still a puppy.

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“NO JUMP.” My command is sharp and controlled. There is no mistaking my intention—or my irritation.

His eyes search frantically at first, desperate for some overlooked advantage, some miracle escape. There is none, of course, and realizing this, he begins to still. I can feel the tension begin to seep out of him as understanding takes hold.

 

With his body calm and settled, I slowly release him. He rises without a fuss and trots off, circling the ball and me in a wide loop. After one full lap, he returns and sits in front of me—ears perked, eyes locked on the ball. The drama is over. He is ready for fun again.

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I cock my arm back and launch the ball with full force across the dog park, watching it arc across the early golden sky. Monster streaks after it, a blur of black and white fur. 

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Just Monster and me, alone at the dog park. Though technically we are out while the curfew is still in effect, I feel the risk is worth it for these precious moments of bliss. The early morning air is still and crisp, carrying only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds—a rare stretch of quiet that feels entirely ours.