To the Ends of the Earth
By R.G. Hendrickson
He poured coffee in his favorite cup. The embossed valentine hearts, some pink, some red, met his double grip against the smooth ceramic surface. The familiar aroma warmed his nose. He sipped. It washed away the taste of morning. Lockdown, six weeks in.
Now that he had his coffee, he could start the rest of his routine and maybe do something about that hair sticking up in all directions, but he didn’t. No reason. Why bother? Not going anywhere.
He picked up the remote for the little TV on the kitchen counter and pressed. Nothing happened. He clicked it again with no result and dropped it with a clunk where he’d found it by the dirty dishes. His hand reached out to the screen and touched a button beneath it, which flashed the news. First mist
