[ WP ] The end of the world is caused by a chain of events that was triggered by something insignificant that you did . You 've been given the power to time jump to figure out what you did and stop yourself .

Just an exposition: 
 
 I jolt awake. My sheets soaked-through and cold. The clock that hasn ’ t woken me in weeks reads 5:30 AM. It was the same nightmare as most nights. Or it was once a nightmare – now it ’ s more of a dream. 
 
 Pushing blinds aside, I peer out the window nearest my bed. The Haze is still there; it wasn ’ t going anywhere. I lie back on the bed, holding still with eyes closed, trying to recapture scenes from my sleep. Make them permanent, conscious memories. This exercise is redundant though – the scenes have always been just memories. The past might seem like a dream, but it happened, and I was there. And the Haze wasn ’ t. 
 
 I guess I should get up. 
 
 My pantry is mostly empty. I grab a box of generic dried oats and eat them in a bowl with soymilk. I ’ m not lactose intolerant, and I never particularly liked soymilk, but now it ’ s the only thing that goes decently with cereal. Dairy wasn ’ t sustainable, and we lost almonds along with the bees. Mattie hated bees. 
 
 I step out onto the front porch of the house I still live in, and I pull my phone from my pocket to take a picture. It ’ s a ritual I ’ ve kept up everyday since I first moved in with her. It was meant for a time lapse I would show at our anniversary or whatever. 
 
 I gaze through my phone ’ s digital screen at the ugly slum encroaching on my lovely blue porch. I swear this neighborhood looks more and more like the surface of Venus with each passing day. Twenty years ago we were yuppie academics in a cute new home on a street full of yuppie academics. This morning ( like every other morning ), a sickly orange glow permeates throughout the suburb of Greensdale as the Sun ’ s light trickles through a thick film of smog. The glow reaches into every corner of every dilapidated house, even discoloring slightly the shadows. It ’ s nauseating. 
 
 As I bike to work, I pass the same homeless child I pass most days. He looks like he ’ s starving, but I never give him anything. Giving him anything at all would be giving up. It would be accepting this pitiful world as a reality we must continue to live with, and the people would know, and they would give up too. There is a reason my home was never looted and I still have oats in my pantry: I ’ m still trying to get rid of the Haze. 
 
 Michigan ’ s state government ( what remains of it ) supports my well-being and my attempts to engineer an airborne bacteria that consumes and sequesters Haze. There were more of me, but there weren ’ t enough oats to go around. Even the most desperate people seem to respect my job, and that ’ s why, for the time being, I can ’ t share my food with a starving child. 
 
 I get to the lab and promptly remove my sweat-drenched T-shirt. I don ’ t know why I wore it to begin with. Professionalism I guess. This lab is probably the only place in a 300-mile radius with electricity, but of course I can ’ t waste energy on AC, even if it ’ s already 42˚C and not yet 7 AM. 

