The Last HumanS.W. Anderson
In an empty, abandoned house in central New Jersey, a young woman sat alone at the farmhouse-style dining room table. The walls were bare and echoed her every move. The white, plastic spoon scraped across the bottom of the Styrofoam as she collected another scoop of cereal. She placed the stale, watered-down lump into her mouth and allowed the cereal to linger above her tongue for a moment. Emily swallowed hard, wishing for a cow to magically appear in the back yard so that she could just have some milk for a change. Maybe the milk would make the old, forgotten cereal taste like something other than soggy cardboard.
She ate quietly as she sat at the table reading the worn-out pages of the book she carried with her everywhere. Somehow the story of a lone human
