During the day I sold shoes for minimum wage-- a job that was better than it sounds-- but I lived for the nights, when the kettle was whistling on the stove of my closet-sized studio apartment. I called him most nights, as my tea steeped and I burrowed deeper and deeper under the blankets, privileging the long-distance phone calls over the heating bill.
We talked late into the night, often circling back to the state of the world, the end of civilization, and a potential technology-mandated return to simplicity. Over time, the fear of the unknown turned into excitement as we dreamed, awake and aloud, about what life would be like without computers. We fantasized about the world returning to its natural order and nature taking the opportunity to thrive unscathed.
As our dreams became lofty, so did our plans. Before we knew it we were buying camping gear, studying edible plants and working out the logistics of moving him to my small town in Vermont-- a location we deemed more apocalypse-friendly than where he was living in Indianapolis. On my days off, I hiked deep in the woods, searching for hospitable camp sites-- just in case-- and returned home long after my cheeks were ruddy from the cold.
The apocalypse, of course, never happened. The year 2000 rolled in with no glitches, no crashes, no simplicity. But as my new sub-zero sleeping bag sat coiled up in a corner of my closet, our friendship unfurled with the realization that if the world was going to burn, we wanted to stand on a mountain and watch the flames rise, together. The clocks, for us, had reset.
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This story is about my dear friend, Scott, who was recently diagnosed with stomach cancer. To support him while he's out of work for treatment, I'm selling one-line drawings of animals! To learn more about Scott, visit his blog. It's incredibly honest and insightful. Visit my blog, too, if you'd like to support this great cause and receive a one-line drawing of your animal friend! xo, andee 
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