The Millers lived in an ordinary house, on an ordinary street, in an ordinary town. They even had an ordinary (ish) dog called Fluffy, but the Millers weren't an ordinary family - oh no. They had one specific trait that made them different:

He drew deep black squiggles in his notebook. No one could find out that he was infected, that he was now one of 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. The squiggles grew larger and now resembled an all-consuming spiral. If someone found out, he was screwed. This was serious.

Gabriella Davison looks into the flower shop and turned her attention away. She didn’t have anybody to love. Who would love someone like her. She wished she wasn’t in a wheelchair.

The machine factory smells of oil and a white burning alcohol scent. The hum-hiss-hum of the machinery is soothing. The clapping of steel boots on steel floors. It is grounding. Is is comforting. This is physical sensation of purpose, she thought.

There are a lot of people out there who think that the world is dying fast. It had been slower then since they didn’t have the tools we have now that had gotten them this far into the future, but leaving behind in their wake the forgotten ones that tried and tried to be better.

Jerry glanced down at the photograph in his hand, then back up again at the woman sitting alone at the back of the cafe.