He was completely prepared. He knew the nature of the brain injury that required surgery. He knew the risks. He’d reviewed the CAT scan, the MRI. He’d consulted online sources about the operation. The operating room was clean, and all the supplies were ready.

And here he was, driving the deserted streets of Miami. He hadn’t seen a soul for two months. He still had no idea what happened. There were bizarre burn rings in larger parking lots, twenty yards across – but if aliens grabbed everyone, why was HE here?

The first two weeks had just been a desperate search for survivors, or evidence. But then he’d slipped and fallen on his head on his own driveway. The headaches had been getting worse ever since.

He’d spent a week making a video documenting the procedure. At this point, he would try to teach a teenager how to do it. But there was nobody. Time was running out, and there was noone. His mantra rose unbidden once more to his lips.

“A barber can still try to cut his own hair. But what of the neurologist?”