I was drunk when I walked the night with staggering steps. An empty bottle swung loosely in my right hand. The street lights burst like dying stars. It was pitch black. I licked my upper lip and pulled down the peak of my cap. With a drunkard's wind-up I tossed my bottle and heard it break loudly against something I could not see. Sirens began to wail. In the distance I saw red flashing lights and heard the rush of vehicles. "They must be after me," I thought. I made my way through the darkness, staggering and falling. That night I was scared as I hid in my bed. Maybe they would blame me for the failure of the lights, as some blame me for this godless world.
By morning, the power had turned on the radio. The newsman said a electric grid burned out and left the Eastern Seaboard in darkness. There was much rioting and looting, numerous people were killed in the blind violence. I took a broom and dustpan and found the broken bottle. Quietly I swept its shards into the pan. I would hide the evidence in case the news was wrong, and my pitch left us in blackness.