We’re in the middle of an overpass crossing a stretch of the Northwestern railroad when they say the Moon has gone off its orbit. The voices on the radio croak through the static, by turn lost and agitated. Danny and Lina are up in front, and I’m in the backseat, wedged between a suitcase and an extra six-pack of bottled water that didn’t fit in the trunk.  

Danny’s knuckles on the steering wheel have gone white as if holding on to it will make all the difference. Lina’s mouth becomes a soft “o”, lower lip trembling ever so slightly.  “I don’t understand,” she says, and her hands land protectively on her belly, a habit that began to develop in the past few weeks. “What do they mean it’s falling?”  

There is a small tremble in her voice, the one I recognize from the time we were little. It always sounded like that when she was about to cry, and I’m afraid that she will cry now but Lina doesn’t. She turns to her husband, as if expecting Danny to give her an explanation, but he doesn’t notice. 

“What do we do?” he says. “I can turn around at the next junction, and we can go back home. Should we be going back?” Danny’s eyes in the rearview mirror are so wide I can see the white around his pupils when he looks at me. Since the day we met, I always thought that he had nice eyes, the color of pebbles at the bottom of a blue river. It was on the first day of college that I saw him first. We were dragging Lina’s enormous suitcase up the stairs to our dorm room, the elevator was broken, and he came over to help. I liked him from the start. He liked Lina. 

“There’s no point,” I say. “We’re almost at the rental, and if you turn back, we’ll have to drive halfway across the country in the middle of all this…” I gestured at the radio. “Whatever this is. Who knows how long it will take.” 

Lina heaves as if she’s going to throw up, and we both stare at her. Her face looks so pale, it is almost transparent. “I cannot take any more time in the car,” she says, and this time begins to cry. Danny’s eyes in the rearview mirror lock with mine and hold. 

We drive the rest of the way in silence. On the radio, professor whose name I cannot remember is saying that the impact shock of collision with the Moon will boil away atmosphere and oceans, destroy absolutely all living things on Earth, make its surface molten and increase Earth’s mass by about one eightieth from what it is right now. I don’t get to learn what this last bit means because we roll into the driveway of our AirBnB, and Danny shuts off the engine. The radio dies with it.  

The house is a neat little Cape Cod with a perfect garden at the very edge of the lake. It was supposed to be our last getaway together, as the three of us, before the baby is born. Lina gets out of the car, evidently unable to stand being in it any longer. Her flip flops pat along the long stretch of the driveway to the house. Danny and I drag in the suitcases. I switch on the TV, click through the channels. On all screens the picture is this same—frantic news anchors questioning people who look just as desperate. A lot of shouting is involved.  

Lina touches her hand to the temple. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” she says. “Are you going to be okay without me?” Danny nods, eyes glued to the flickering images on the screen—the Moon in black-and-white, the Moon as seen from the space station, the Moon as a collection of formulas and graphs, the Moon, the Moon, the Moon.   

Lina goes upstairs, and I join Danny on the couch. “Are they saying what they’re going to do about it?” I ask. 

“I need a beer,” Danny says and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear him going through the bags, swearing under his breath. He brings back a six-pack. I grab a bottle, the green glass underneath my palm sweating wet. 

We go through all of the available channels, local and international, right- and left-leaning, professional, semi-professional, and the outright odd. We go through the beer at the same speed. We don’t learn anything new.  

By the second hour, some channels lose connection. Danny begins to cry. “Hey,” I say leaning over. “It’ll be okay.” In the darkening room, his lips are so close, and I kiss him on the mouth with the sudden desperation I didn’t know I felt. There is a moment of frozen confusion, and then his lips answer mine, searching and just as desperate. Hands grab at the clothes, fingers digging into skin. When it’s all over, we lie on the couch in a tangle of limbs and crumpled fabric. The voices on TV are mostly static.  

“Please don’t tell Lina,” he says, and I nod.  

I drag myself to the bathroom and press my head to the cold glass of the mirror above the sink. It grows warm way too soon. I’ve never regretted that I quit smoking quite this much.  

By the time I leave the bathroom, the night has set, and the house is completely dark, save for the soft light streaming from the living room. Danny and Lina sit on the couch, leaning into each other, their heads so close. Danny’s hand rests on his wife’s round belly.  

I step outside. Somewhere up above, satellites are going out one by one. The lake is a pitch-black pit, and the Moon is leaning over the still water, its giant orb taking up most of the sky. If I lift up my hands, I can touch it, run my fingers over the cracks and craters of its familiar, cold face, feel the weight of its inexorable descent in my bones.