The midday light falls like it always has, like it did before anyone thought to count time. Under the earth, an old root stretches toward sun and everything continues. A bead glistens in the dirt, soon to be swallowed by a passing bullfrog, causing intestinal block. Invertebrates throng on plastic debris. When the final human gives a last exhale, she does so believing that no one is left to mark her passing—but two black flies circle close—drawn to carbon dioxide and a human form. In the final months, many people feel like the last person on the planet but can’t really believe it. Catastrophe is repeated until language loses meaning. The good deaths come fast: earth opening up, tidal waves crashing ashore. Some are so lucky (according to the last of us) they don’t live to see it become obvious, at last, to everyone. The ocean warms the predicted amount. Official outlets refuse to say catastrophe. The bees die in a clump, furred bodies tossed in the breeze. Scientists say we're running out of time to stop the ocean warming to the predicted amount after which it will become too hot, too late. We’re lucky enough to grow older, to take hot showers and drive to work. The last Pyrenean ibex, almost bleating, suffocates a few seconds after birth. The last Pyrenean ibex is not the last because the scientists make a clone, born with collapsed lungs. We name the last Pyrenean ibex Celia, and she is crushed under a falling tree. In school, I learn the names of dead animals. I see my first mammoth in a dark wood room; the scale of its bones frightens me.