Commitment is an act, not a word. Now, I want you two to demonstrate the love you share, right here in the office.

On a typical sleepy Sunday morning in Glendale, California, Kyle and his wife, Noelle, were setting up lawn chairs for their garage sale. A small playing card table was situated between them with a pitcher of ice tea and two cups. A sign on a makeshift sandwich board read: GARAGE SALE. ALL SALES ARE FINAL. This was the second attempt as the previous day a steady drizzle had kept only but a handful of the bargain hunters away.

Being the survivor of a happy union, ’til death do us part, would have been less painful than the daily combat of annulment crossfire. I flipped through my soon-to-be ex-husband’s proposed divorce settlement with a feeling of loss, disappointed that decades of a life together would end in acrimony. Why should I be expected to settle for less than I deserved? The deadline to sign was approaching.

Life has been a little weird since that portal opened up. At first everyone was all “Oh my God! Hell Beasts are flooding the earth, seas, and skies! We’re going to die!” and the government was telling us to arm ourselves to the teeth. I’d never bought a gun in my life, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

In June of his hundred-fifty-something-th year, when the pages of his native Russian novel started to feel positively toxic, Innokentii dusted off the folds of his jacket, picked up his hat and a walking stick and stepped out into the world.