The meteor was set to strike Earth sometime in late June. The news broke about it in February, and people totally freaked out for a few days there. But then March Madness started and everyone got distracted until mid-April. By late spring, folks only remembered the impending apocalypse when they saw those “End of Life As We Know It, Everything 30% Off” signs at their local department stores, or when they looked at the sky and made eye-contact with the huge chunk of flaming rock hurtling with inexorable speed and strength toward Earth.
The stakes grew higher in early June when people realized that they were actually definitely going to die in twelve days, and that they’d somehow allowed themselves to be distracted from that fact for four consecutive months. Solutions were few and far between. People did the intuitive things, obviously: mutter about how this shit is fucked and not even that fun, and launch forty metric tons of soap into space so that the meteor would—at the very least—not cart any weird germs into the atmosphere. Each night, entire communities would come together to simultaneously throw pebbles at the sky—ever hopeful that someone, somewhere, would have a good enough arm to knock the meteor off-course. What ended up happening most nights is that the rocks fell back down on top of everyone and caused superficial injuries to the face and neck.
But on the fateful night on June 22nd, mere hours before the meteor was scheduled to destroy all that humans know and hold dear, a stone was thrown from the hand of a young boy in the suburbs of Williamsburg, VA. Up, up, up, it rose—far into the sky—almost out of sight above people’s heads. And it seemed for a moment that anything was possible, imminently possible. But obviously the pebble came nowhere even close to touching the meteor and everyone on the planet still died later that night.