From July 4th, Friday, to July 6th, Sunday

“Alright, kids, time to eat!” said Sylvestre, pointing to wooden tables in a small dining area near the river.

“A ham and cheese sandwich, a banana, and a can of orange soda! A nutritious snack for the young ones!” said Michelle in her kindergarten teacher tone.

“Is there just cheese? I'm vegetarian...” said Isabel, a girl with dark brown wavy hair.

“No problem, we'll make one with just cheese, okay?”

“Don't forget, polluting the reserve is prohibited! We have recycling bins here! Cans in the yellow bin, paper in the blue, and banana peels in the brown,” said Sylvestre, pointing to the left.

After eating, the first to finish, Caroline—a girl with neck-length black hair and glasses—went to throw away the trash and screamed in fear.

“What happened?” asked Quentin, approaching the girl.

“There's a skunk sleeping in the trash can!” replied Caroline.

“No, it's a cat!” said Édouard, looking into the bin.

“It's a skunk, man. Or do you call skunks 'cats' in Canada?” said Quentin, also peering into the bin.

“This place is so inspiring...” said Lilianne, gazing at the sky.

“Yes. Excellent for artists...” added Vivianne.

“Look at this mushroom, teach!” said Théophile, pointing to a red mushroom with a rather suspicious shape.

It seemed Gabriel's idea had worked. He, like the students, appeared happy and smiling, even if only for a few hours. He couldn't wait to tell Claire about it.

Iris kept taking photos of nature, while Jonas accompanied her, careful not to slip and fall on his butt like Nathan.

“Seems like you really liked it here,” said Jonas.

“Yes, it's a beautiful place. I want to come back someday. I think if I could, I'd even live here!” replied Iris, taking a photo of a small waterfall.

“Then I guess I'll have to build a bunker here.”

About an hour later, the sky grew even cloudier. It was time to leave before it rained. On the way back, the van stopped to refuel, and the students went into the gas station's convenience store. Iris bought a chocolate bar, which she shared with Jonas, while Nathan, for some reason, bought a bag of beans.

On the return trip, more generic pop music played in the van, which stopped at the school, and the students began heading home.

“Nathan, fartass!” shouted Monique playfully.

“What's so funny? Everyone farts,” replied the boy indifferently.

“But not like a ship's horn,” joked Bernard.

“Jonas, you and Thérése can eat at my house whenever you want. You know that, right?” said Iris, taking the opposite direction from Nathan's group.

“And to think it used to be the other way around, huh? You used to come eat at my place sometimes...”

“Yeah. Your grandma cooks really well. It's a real shame she's into that fasting thing now...”

As they talked, they were nearly run over by Quentin, who was running in a hurry.

“What's up with him?” asked Jonas.

“He's late for prayer time at his house,” replied Édouard.

“It was nice, but I wish I had seen the animals...” said Diane.

“Did you see Renata?” whispered Iris.

“What about her?” replied Jonas.

“She was chatting with that blond guy that was from the other class. I thought it was cute.”

“Do you know how we win over women in Canada?” said Édouard.

“Please, no...” pleaded Diane, not wanting to hear the Canadian boy's answer.

July 6, Sunday.

The storm had returned, and it had been raining since Friday night. Quentin was at the kitchen table, having lunch with his parents and younger sister. His parents were devout apocalyptic believers. They weren't aggressive or fanatical, but they were committed to the idea that the prophecy was real and that spiritual preparation mattered more than anything else.

“Dear,” said Quentin's mother, a blonde woman with blue eyes, placing her hand on her son's shoulder. “The church asked us to participate. They're asking families to go out and knock on doors to share the message.”

“Now? In the middle of the rain?” questioned the boy.

“Before the world ends, every soul must have the choice and the knowledge. We need to at least try, even in the rain.”

His father, a man with curly black hair, handed Quentin an orange raincoat and some blue-covered pamphlets that read “Prepare Your Soul – The End Is Near.”

This wasn't the first time they had done this, but it was the first time they would go out in the rain to spread the word. Quentin, his parents, and his younger sister, Célia—a blonde girl with curly hair about eight years old—went out together, knocking on doors, always politely and never insisting.

In a certain part of the city lived a man. About fifty years old, bald, living alone in a small, simple house. Since the prophecy was revealed, his disdain for the so-called apocalyptic believers had only grown. He had recently lost his job—staff reduction, they said. He blamed the chaos and the "apocultists" who were ruining the world with their hysteria. Each passing day, the sense of normalcy in the world diminished, and his hatred increased. He spent hours on social media complaining under the pseudonym @marteaudeverite, or getting drunk while doing it.

For some reason, he was watching Zek's live stream while drinking as much as the so-called prophet. The man punched the wall and the table at every nonsense Zek said about prophecy and the end of the world. To him, the world had gone mad. Until he heard the doorbell ring.

Usually, he wouldn't answer. Who would be crazy enough to go out in that rain and ring the doorbell? But, having had a few drinks and feeling curious, he decided to answer and see what it was, while hearing a female voice from afar saying, “We bring words of peace.”

The man opened the door and saw a family wearing raincoats and holding religious pamphlets, with hopeful and tender eyes, smiling as if there were still a tomorrow. And then, he saw the world that had taken everything from him. His job, which he had lost due to the apocalyptic chaos. His wife, who had left him after he lost his job. His teenage son, who had gone away with his mother.

“You...” said the man, trembling.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked Quentin, not noticing the man's alcohol breath.

“You... took everything from me. My job, my family, my country, my sanity...” The man went back inside his house without closing the door.

“I think we'd better leave,” said Quentin's father.

But before they could start moving away from the property, the man returned, holding a hunting shotgun.

“Sir! There's no need for violence!” said Quentin's mother, frightened.

“They're just children...” said the man, almost crying, pointing the gun at Quentin and his sister. “They are the future of the world, but they've become the future of madness. People like you poisoned them!”

A gunshot, louder than any thunder, echoed through the street. The young Quentin had been shot in the chest and died instantly in his father's arms, who was left in shock. The mother and sister screamed in horror.

When the police arrived, the man had already killed himself with a shot to the head. And now, a family had lost a son. For something they were never to blame for.

258 days remain.