When the rain first began to fall, the orbs rejoiced. But their joy was short-lived. The water coming from the sky was not the same as in the past. It was as if its molecular structure had been altered. After boiling, it retained a metallic taste that lingered in the mouth and permeated any food cooked with it. Over time the rain began to kill what little vegetation still lived in the city. Weakened buildings deteriorated further in the deluge. The city took on a greasy sheen. Even when the rain stopped on occasion, nothing dried. Watery beads covered every surface; if you pushed your finger through them, trails of oily residue remained. Certain less practical members of the city’s leadership began paying street kids in rations to squeegee the buildings downtown in an attempt to proffer an illusion of normalcy to the citizenry. But the orbs knew better. This was normal now and ignorance of that fact only served to lessen the chances of their survival. At a general assembly gathering, a fight broke out over the squeegee issue, with the most pragmatic leaders railing against the foolishness of wasting rations in this manner. They won the debate by popular vote. She sat in the back, wary and ready for a quick exit, her eyes roving the crowd in search of him.