Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. Or so the notice on my scooter’s mirrors claimed. But when I looked the damned things weren’t reflecting anything. Zilch. Nicht. Nada. Not even the sky or my nose. I rubbed my fingers on each of them and the contact told me they weren’t broken. But my hands weren’t showing. In place of any sort of reflection, all I could see was some sort of static noise, or as if pixels might have gone lost or, rather, confused. Yet my scooter only had ordinary mirrors, not plasma screens. I was still touching them when it hit me: They were showing the end of the world. It had crept on me and I had not noticed.
When I turned around on my seat to face it, it was already too late.