It had been a week, and more people were arriving in town every day. They came down the highway in loose groups, walking along the shoulder in the heat, packs slung low, shirts tied around their waists. Most were city tourists—joggers in running shoes, couples in zippered fleece jackets, families with too many bags and not enough food. Their faces were red from the sun, skin peeling at the nose and cheeks, feet blistered from shoes not made for distance.
Some arrived injured. Wrapped wrists. Limping. Bloodied sleeves. A few were armed—hunting rifles, shotguns, even a couple with pistols in waistband holsters—but many of those carried signs of having already used them. Torn pant legs, stained gauze wrapped tight. A boy with a bandaged ear. A man with three fingers taped together and splinted.
Others, like Peter's family, arrived without someone they'd left with. Some looked like they hadn't slept.
The town started to feel a little filter every day- with it having supported a much larger population once upon a time there was plenty of empty houses to choose from. People settled in wherever there was space— mostly empty houses
The animals hadn't calmed. If anything, they were more aggressive.
A buck had been taken down earlier in the week—six-pointer, but the antlers were thicker than they should've been, with grooves along the bone that looked like overgrowth. The group that killed it made soup. Stew, mostly—whatever vegetables they had on hand.
After eating, a few people said they felt something. Warmth in their chest, in their limbs. One man said it helped his legs. Another said he didn't feel tired for two days straight. A third claimed he could move the sensation through his body when he focused- he also claimed it was she same energy that come from the ground and sky.
No one took the third hunter seriously.
Except Peter.
He didn't ask questions. Just listened. Paid attention.
A year ago when he was practicing basketball, he taught himself how to dribble blindfolded. Not because anyone told him to—but because he figured if he could do it without seeing, he'd be harder to stop in a real game. He practiced on the cracked driveway at home, hands low, bouncing in rhythm with nothing but sound and instinct.
Peter believed you shouldn't just take it all face value or just do what everyone else is doing, far as he knew no else practiced dribbling blindfolded.
So he set off the library one mid morning.
The town's old library sat near the center, across from what used to be the hardware store. It was too big for the current population—two floors of brick, wide front steps, and arched windows rimmed in dust. It had been built during the factory years, back when cast-molding contracts paid for civic buildings and community pride- 20 years ago this must have been a very nice library.
When the factory closed, everything slowed. Stores emptied. People left. What had once been a busy town of over three thousand now sat below five hundred.
The library was open when Peter arrived. The front doors were unlocked, slightly ajar, hinges stiff when he pushed them in. The air inside was dry and still, cooler than outside but layered with the smell of dust, old paper, and wood polish that hadn't been used in years.
There was no electricity. The overhead lights were dead. The front desk computer was black, the screen canted to one side. He had brought a candle—half-burnt, set in a shallow ceramic bowl. He lit it just inside the doorway and carried it with both hands as he moved deeper in.
The building was old. Real old. Probably built before the war—maybe even before that. Thick wooden shelves ran down the length of the main room. The floor creaked in long, slow groans under his steps. A few of the windows let in strips of weak daylight, enough to see shapes but not words. Dust floated in the candlelight like ash.
He walked for a bit, not totally sure where to start. At first, he just looked around—no plan, just scanning rows of cracked spines and faded labels. After a few minutes, he figured the books were sorted by title, alphabetical. No library staff, no catalog, no electricity—just him, a candle, and whatever he could find.
He skipped the fiction. Not why he was here.
He moved along the nonfiction wall, eyes passing over categories scrawled in marker on bits of masking tape: Farming, Chemistry, Wilderness Skills, Local History. His purpose was clear—he was looking for anything that mentioned cultivating or cultivation. Not in the gardening sense, but in whatever sense matched the voice he'd heard… and now the hunter's story too.
The others had laughed, shrugged it off, said it sounded like nonsense.
Peter hadn't dismissed it.
Not with what he'd seen the day of the quake.
Not with what he'd felt when the light came.
He found the "Cultivation" section halfway down the shelf. His candlelight caught the spines in a wavering line as he scanned the titles, one by one.
Cultivating Blueberries in Temperate Climates. Pale blue cover, water-warped. Mostly charts and tips about soil drainage.
The Cultivation of the Mind in Early Greek Philosophy. Dense text, small print. A few quotes about reason and virtue.
Mushroom Cultivation for Home Use. A thin guide with black-and-white photos of spores on damp logs.
Tobacco Cultivation in Appalachia: A Regional Survey. Dry language, tables of planting schedules, crop yields from the 1960s.
Cultivating Character in Youth Sports. Laminated cover, full of sports clichés and team-building exercises.
Advanced Soil Cultivation Equipment: A Technical Manual. Diagrams of tillers, tractors, blade settings, and engine specs.
Peter kept looking. One shelf at a time, moving the candle carefully with him. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. His knees ached from crouching. Every few minutes he'd pause, slide a book out, check a few pages, and put it back. Nothing useful. Just manuals, agriculture texts, out-of-date how-to guides.
Probably twenty minutes in, he saw something on the bottom shelf. A hardcover with a faded green cloth binding. The title on the spine was stamped in gold, most of it worn away. He brought the candle closer and read what was left:
Introductory Methods in Controlled Breath and Energy Regulation
by H. D. Korman
He pulled it out. The book was heavy. The cover was stiff. The pages inside were thick and slightly yellowed. The text was printed in two columns, with bold chapter headings and occasional footnotes.
He turned to the first chapter.
The writing was formal. It opened with a description of breath as a physical tool tied directly to internal rhythm and self-regulation. The author referenced historical sources—early Chinese scrolls, Japanese movement systems, priest training texts from ancient Egypt, and stone-era Incan breath rituals performed at altitude. There were names Peter didn't recognize. The language detailed how specific cultures had linked breath to internal change, with passing mentions of extended retention, pressure awareness, and energy control through deliberate practice.
The next few pages discussed something called "volitional rhythm entrainment," described as a physiological state created through intentional breath pacing. The author cited recorded instances of altered heart rate, warmth, and limb sensitivity. Several paragraphs were dedicated to the idea that these effects had once been trained deliberately.
Peter kept the book balanced across his knees as he read. The text moved from claim to claim. Breath, repetition, attention, adaptation. References to early observation. Ideas drawn from obscure books, journals, oral records.
He didn't see any diagrams or instructions.
He turned the page and kept going.
It was better than nothing.
He didn't really have time to look through much more. The candle had burned low, wax thick at the bottom of the bowl. The light wavered as he stood and shifted the book under his arm.
He moved back through the aisles, retracing his steps to the entrance.
He had no qualms about taking the book. The library remained quiet, the checkout desk layered in dust. He figured no one would stop him. He needed it.
The sun sat at an angle that suggested early afternoon. He guessed he'd been at the library for about an hour. Without a working phone and no wall clocks running, he gauged time by light. The sky held a flat, bright cast. No deep shadows.
He walked along the shoulder of the road, the hardcover pressed against his ribs, the bowl cupped in his other hand. The candle flame shifted with each step. Grass leaned with the breeze. The wind carried the smell of warm dust and pine.
The walk to the house took about ten minutes. Gravel cracked underfoot. A sheet of clear plastic shifted at a window, edges fluttering against the frame.
He stepped up to the door and opened it.
He wasn't sure what his dad was doing. He was off with the other adults, somewhere. Probably working on something. His dad had been distant since Mom's death.
Peter hadn't talked to his sister either. She stayed in the back room. He wasn't exactly sure what depression was, but he was pretty sure she was depressed. She didn't do much. He heard the bed creak sometimes. The water jug by the door went down a little each day.
He walked through the front room and into the kitchen. The table near the window was covered in soft light. He set the candle on the counter and pulled out a chair.
The house had stayed furnished. Chairs, dishes, blankets, everything left behind. Apparently the family had kept the furniture in the house when they put it up for sale. He could see why. A lot of it was old—worn armrests, floral cushions, carved wood legs that didn't match anything newer. It all looked like it had belonged to an old lady.
He opened the book where he'd left off and started reading.