The timer ticks down, not that we pay any attention to it, a giant hour glass, each grain of sand dropping from a great height with an audible ticking sound as it hits the pile beneath. Billie once asked me why we call it an hour glass since it takes longer than an hour. I told her that was a good question, that the shape is what the name describes, and that, yes, she was right about the timing. This hour glass, for the end of days, no one is quite sure when exactly the last grain from the top will fall to the bottom, the last life who, if all goes well, will set in motion the wheel that turns the whole thing over to start again. There are estimates, of course. We do check it from time to time. Odd expression, that. A week, give or take. That’s about how much time is left for those of us on this side of the glass. What would you do with a week left of your life? Well, me and my friends do what we have always done. We spend our time together, living. Just not for much longer.