How long would it take for them to start running the world if we all just disappeared?

Not very, I reckon.

Day 23
Monday

I wake as usual to the cold pinching my face. The TV is muted but the screen lights the room, chasing away the shadows from my sleep, with their pointy teeth that rip and bite, and eyes that shine in the dark. Now it's TV light and the sound of my tight, frosted breaths.

My heart settles. The house is cold and all the quiet things are loud. The fridge, the clock, my breathing, Splinter's. He sleeps on the couch with me. I don't put him out at night.

I swing my feet onto the floorboards. Every morning for the first week your digital alarm cube came on at seven, spilling voices into your room. I'd fumble, my fingers searching over the smooth surfaces for the spot to touch that would turn it off, slipping over its pretend-wood surface. It's actually glass and hard plastic, which is why I was surprised it didn't smash when I threw it against the wall. Your room's not that big, so it didn't go far; didn't even unplug. But it doesn't go off at seven anymore. It says 11:11 and blinks madly, like it thinks it's still keeping time; 11:11: blinking, like it hasn't been destroyed. Some mornings I go in just to watch it blink. I bend down and run my fingers over the display, the hairline cracks barely registering on my skin. The quiet it left is louder than I thought it'd be.

Excerpted from A Million Things by Emily Spurr. Copyright © 2021 by Emily Spurr. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.