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The spiders’ll keep out the mosquitos,” said Win’s father. “And the rats?” “Just the local neighborhood association.” Thunder rumbled. The baby moved. That night the storm and the child came together. From the moment Win opened his eyes, he saw his father and his mother fixing things that were broken and bringing to life things that were dead. There wasn’t a thing in the world Win’s dad couldn’t fix, not even the farmhouse’s old fuel cell generator. Nor was there a patch of ground anywhere from which Win’s mother couldn’t coax some life, not even the old clay under the farmhouse hills. Her pride and joy were the golden sunflowers grown from seeds brought from the place that had once been her home. The whole world had seemed broken and dead by the time Win was born – at least as far as humans were concerned. Before the last universities had closed their doors and the last schools had shuttered their windows, most scholars had called this time the Dwindling. Every year there were less and less people to be found. A few others had called it The Changing of Hands. Only the zealots ever called it the End of the World. “A ridiculous expression,” Win’s father said to Win’s mother one night when discussing current events, which was a bit more difficult without newspapers or the world wide web, for those things had long ago vanished. “The world doesn’t end. It just keeps on spinning, like clockwork, looking different with each tick of the hands. And so will we.” “If you say so, love,” Win’s mother said with her joyful-sad smile, her eyes on Win in her arms. By different Win’s father meant that humans no longer ran the show. The world belonged to the robots. Every night Win’s father and mother and little baby Win would sit on the porch of their new, very old home, watching the glow of the robot city just beyond the forest, like their own personal aurora borealis. The robots rarely came near the farm. This was fine as the humans kept to themselves too – and busy. A garden soon bloomed within a wooden fence. Hay found a home in a cozy barn. A rope swing hung from the old oak. Smoke at last puffed from the red-brick chimney. “We’re home,” Win’s mother said one night on the porch, playing with Win. “Not yet,” said his father, eyes on the blue glow above the horizon. “The old place is still missing one more thing.” “What’s that?” “More people. Now it’s a farm. One day we’ll make it a village.” “What’s wrong with a farm?” “Things can always be better. We can make them better.” “Maybe things are better the way they are.” “Our boy will need a city.” “Are there enough of us left for a city?” “We’ll find them.” “If you say so, love.” Soon, however, people did arrive, though not nearly enough for a village. First came Uncle John and Old Nan, when Win was four years old. How a couple that old could have traveled so far Win’s parents did not know. But they’d made it somehow. They brought with them some other friends: Jekyll and Hyde, the two goats, and Benny and the Jets, which were a red-tailed rooster and a flock of hens, carried in wooden cages on their old backs. “John, look,” Old Nan said when she first met Win. “It’s a baby.” “I’m four!” Win protested. Nan laughed. She caressed his cheek like touching gold. Uncle John never said a word. The old man cried. It was the only time Win ever saw him do so. Having Uncle John and Old Nan brought more laughter than ever to the farmhouse on the hill. It was Nan who read Win stories from the old days, fairy tales and make-believe where the heroes were right and won the day. Win’s mother protested the stories at first, for some reason or another. But in the end, she relented. Nan also had a record player. As all children do, Win discovered that music was the most wonderful thing in the world. Uncle John taught Win how to hunt. He had a rifle named Connie, after his mother. Win was a good shot. But he always handed the rifle over when it was time to bring down a buck or a doe. There was just something that didn’t sit right in his heart about making the world emptier than it already was. Two years later, Tom Crow showed up. He was half starved when Win came upon him as he played at the edge of the forest. “A ghost!” Tom screamed. “A ghost!” He covered his face with his hands and wailed. Win himself ran away crying. “Nothing left, nothing left, nothing left,” was all Tom said for another few hours after that, after Win had returned with his family. Tom Crow never said much after that first day. He helped Win’s mother and