Excerpt
If you were around when it happened, I know you thought it was the end of the world. How could you not? Everyone was being shaken like a snow-globe for God-knows-how-long. No one knew which way was up, much less what else it could be. Besides, in many ways it was.

After it appeared all the hullabaloo was through, anyone not pinned, paralyzed, or otherwise out of commission clambered for cell phones, the radio, TV, and the internet for some answers. But wouldn't
you know it, every speaker and screen was a blizzard of static that raged as, one by one, every last bated breath expired. Mercifully, the dust did
eventually settle, and as it did, the static cleared, revealing on screens across the land a welcome face, like mine.

Not that it was me, mind you. Not exactly, though the likeness is uncanny (truly). But no, that particular face belonged to Isaac Pressman,
my...predecessor, let's just call him. And come to think of it, while this story is mine every bit as much as his, since I don’t enter the picture until
later on, I'll try my best from here on out to avoid giving you the impression that I am Isaac Pressman and he is me, despite how imprecisely true it
may be.

Isaac Pressman - forehead and lower lip bleeding, necktie askew, salt-and-pepper locks disheveled - shooed away the wobbly P.A.s still scrambling to get him camera-ready. This was no time to mess with his looks. Not now that they finally got power back.

His producer, Pat, begged him not to broadcast until they had something more concrete than empathy to offer. But Isaac was adamant.

He thought Caleb might be watching.