Two days after the affair with the sharks, things have come as close to back to normal in San Francisco as they do. The sun is just setting, throwing a few last glimmers of red light over the rooftop plaza that now serves as town square. The lights and the turbine have been retrieved, repaired or replaced; the rubble, seaweed and water have been cleared away, tables replaced, and with some effort, a pizza oven built from rubble, cob and fire brick.

The product it is cranking out is plain and uninspired by predisaster standards. Simple garlic basil and tomato sauce, little bits of cheese from one of the town's few cattle, veggies, chunks of barbecued pigeon. But it is food, and enough for all, and the people quietly come in to eat as one of the locals saws away at a fiddle for entertainment.

Jen stumbles out as soon as the light faded, yawning and stretching, and ambles around looking for anyone she knows. Her cat trots after her, keeping his one good eye on her so she doesn't wander into trouble.