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Along with the potatoes and roaches, Spiro survives the apocalypse via the simple expedient of immortality–or a mortality less permanent than most. His weary arms tug him out of the rubble inch by inch. The radiation, he discovers, tickles.

There’s another figure shambling down the street; Spiro has to polish his eyes on his trousers three times to believe it. The space between its hat and collar is empty.

“A construct?” he croaks to the silent morning. “I’m spending the next epoch with a filthy speechless penny-magic construct?

The figure stops. HI! says his lapel. MY NAME IS BOULEVARD.