Lying awake in the dark, I realized I wasn’t thinking about dating or marriage so much as adaptation. About what happens when a species wakes up in an environment it didn’t evolve for and begins improvising in real time.

So how do we look at the people who didn’t follow him? The everyday folks: scribes, healers, stewards, craftsmen, breadmakers—people doing their best to survive, focused on their own lives. People who didn’t have time for some strange man on the corner with a message.

But the sandwich came disassembled. A cellophane-wrapped slice of bread—thick, square, the shape and consistency of Texas Toast—and a plastic cup with a scoop of chicken salad. Nothing more. No lettuce, not even a napkin.

There are dreams that slip away like mist… and others that embed themselves, whispering fragments long after you’ve opened your eyes.

Cut to 2 a.m., when my brain clocked in for the night shift. Instead of sleeping, I started storyboarding: what if this is the opening scene of a Sci-Fi movie?