We Are the Ants(97)
It doesn’t matter.
Rising temperatures could trigger the release of massive amounts of methane trapped beneath the ocean; a scientist could create a strangelet, which would immediately begin converting all matter it comes into contact with into strange matter, including our planet and everything on it. It doesn’t matter.
Famine, war, nuclear winter, black holes, or coronal mass ejections. It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter, because one way or another we’re all going to die. A blood clot could lodge in my brain and kill me ten minutes from now; a car could hit you while you’re walking your dog. It doesn’t matter. We could all die, the world could end, and the universe would simply carry on. A hundred billion years from now, no one will exist who remembers we were space boys or chronic-masturbating alcoholics or science teachers or ex-cons or valedictorians. When we’re gone, time will forget whether we swapped spit with strangers. It will forget we ever existed.
And it doesn’t matter.
We remember the past, live in the present, and write the future.
The universe may forget us, but our light will brighten the darkness for eons after we’ve departed this world. The universe may forget us, but it can’t forget us until we’re gone, and we’re still here, our futures still unwritten. We can choose to sit on our asses and wait for the end, or we can live right now. We can march to the edge of the void and scream in defiance. Yell out for all to hear that we do matter. That we are still here, living our absurd, bullshit lives, and nothing can take that away from us. Not rogue comets, not black holes, not the heat death of the universe. We may not get to choose how we die, but we can choose how we live.
The universe may forget us, but it doesn’t matter. Because we are the ants, and we’ll keep marching on.
Acknowledgments
Every book is a challenge, but this one more than most. It began life as a haunted-house story, then became a murder mystery, then somehow morphed into a sci-fi story set on a space station before finally revealing its true self to me. And, as always, I had a crazy amount of help along the way.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wonderful agent, Amy Boggs, who talks me down off ledges and keeps my compass pointing north. Every book from me is a surprise to her because what I say I’m going to write is rarely what I turn in. But she’s always game, and I am eternally grateful. I’m also grateful to everyone at Donald Maass for taking care of me. You all rock.
I received some wonderful advice from Bruce Coville through a friend of mine who attended a writing retreat with him. He said that when you’re lucky enough to find an editor who believes in you, understands you, and pushes you to be better than you thought you could be, that you should follow that editor anywhere. That editor for me is Michael Strother. My books wouldn’t be the same without his intelli-gence, insight, and How to Get Away With Murder tweets. Thank you, Michael.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the entire Simon Pulse team. Liesa Abrams for introducing me to Franks. Regina Flath for always designing the perfect covers. My thorough and semicolon-loving copyeditor, Kaitlin Severini, who saved my butt multiple times. Candace Greene McManus, Faye Bi, Anthony Parisi, and everyone in the marketing, publicity, and educational departments I haven’t yet met. I write the words, but you all make the magic happen.
Margie Gelbwasser was my tireless cheerleader throughout this journey, Skyping with me when I needed to gripe, and holding my hand when I wanted to quit. Matthew Rush gave me more encouragement than I deserved, and prodded me with a pointy stick when he knew I could do better.
The Spinners (Jenn and Chelsea and Caragh and Stephanie and Denise, and everyone else who pops up from time to time), who have been around since Deathday, continue to be a source of inspiration and support. I’d probably go crazy without our weekly check-ins.
As always, Rachel Melcher is my first reader, offering the support, wisdom, and tough love that only she can. Even when she had to hide from her kids in the bathroom to get the quiet time to read what I sent her. I will never be able to repay you, Pookie!
I can’t thank my family enough for their unwavering belief and support. They may not always understand what I’m writing, but they never make me feel too guilty for disappearing to write it.
Matt Ramsay (aka Captain Schmoopy Von Cuddlebum) remains the most supportive partner any guy could ask for. Writing is stressful, and he’s always game to bring me iced teas and frosty treats, and to listen to me complain when I’ve had a bad day, even if he can’t make sense of half of what I’m talking about. Love you!
Finally, I’d like to thank you. All the enthusiastic readers and librarians who talk up my books and send me e-mails and remind me why I have the greatest job in the world. We may be the ants, but we’re some pretty damn awesome ants, and if the world were to end, I’d count myself lucky to have taken this journey with each and every one of you.