It entered the world with a clap, making its approach known to the world below; a world where tiny creatures sat in traffic, played baseball, and waged war. It tore through the sky and battered the clouds. The buzzing ball of life brought to a moment of silence. As one, those that called this place home let go of their wheels, put down their bats, and lowered their rifles, staring up as the meteor cleave the afternoon like a fresh cut of meat.

Then someone decided to scream.

Like frozen peepers thawing into a burning summer, the tiny creatures clung to their rock panicked. They thrashed scrambled and cried, carpeting the globe in a fleshy stampede. 

Some packed their belongings, others called their loved ones, and a few jumped from windows. For the first time in this blue pebbles convoluted history, its denizens had agreed on something. Their time was up. Men from Japan bought flights to America, men from America bought flights to Japan, Europe was on fire, and no one had heard from Australia. They raged, cried, robbed and burned. 

It went on into the night and into the day. Cities were torched, towns were broken and thousands lay dead, trampled or otherwise from their panicking neighbors.

It was only after the third day, that one man decided to peer back into the sky. Their planetary executioner should have landed by now, but everyone was too caught up in preparing to die to notice.

At the zenith of the world the meteor burned, a little closer, but a little less terrible. The man put down his stolen large-screen TV, passed his wife who was pulling her hair and holding their son, and ran up to his telescope. When he peered in, the extraterrestrial rock burned his retina and his heart nearly popped. It wasn’t due to how massive and destructive the rock was, no it was because of its absolute lack of movement.

He watched its flames die, curling into themselves, diminishing like shallow waves against a black shore. It hung in the air like a museum diorama, dangling high above uninterested observers. The man watched the helpless space rock and laughed. This dawned across the burning cities and the bleeding towns. They looked up at the cooling meteor, then back to their neighbor. They blushed and returned the stolen toasters and TVs. The ones flying away groaned, dreading their now 48 hour round trip, the astronomers locked themselves in their rooms, and those that that jumped really wished that they hadn’t.

Another wave of silence covered the Earth. Like an ugly quilt knitted by some great and ancient aunt. It was a heavy, itchy and stuffy; lacking in fear but ripe with embarrassment. Only whispering flames and a few nervous coughs punctured the muted world. Even the wind called in sick.

If the comet could talk, or see for that matter, it probably would have commented on how dramatic the Human race is.

###

“The meteor is expected to land in under two hours, impacting somewhere in the American Midwest. Devastation is predicted to be catastrophic…” The news anchor repeated for the tenth time in the last five minutes..

“Next channel!” Herbert yelled to Moe. Everyone was sick of the same story. 

The barkeep placed down the two pitchers of beer he was filling and flipped the television to the next channel, then the next, and the next, each one the same as the least. All played footage of the meteor two hours away from hitting their home state of Kentucky.

Who knew that the world ending would make television so boring?

“Say? If it’s the end of the world, shouldn’t we be doing more about it?” Herbert said to his friend.

Sherry looked up from her drink, “Don’t get any ideas. Just cuz the world’s ending doesn’t mean you can be an animal.”

Herbert looked at his mug with disappointment. It wasn’t like the movies at all. “The end of the world is a drag.”

“You’re telling me.” 

###

Harry Simmonds rode the bus towards his hometown of Brandon Connecticut when he first spotted the meteor.

A call at the nearest window caught his attention. A quick, “What is that?” from an elderly woman two seats in front of him accompanied by a “Mom, look!” from the girl at the front of the bus. Then the space rock punch through his Saturday afternoon like cannon fire. The sound had him ducking to the floor, hands over his head, triggering an impulse that three years of service instilled. Few passengers reacted. Most sat in their seats and watched the meteor, shaking  like scared animals.

“Driver, stop the car!” a woman beside Harry screamed. “Stop the car, let me out!”

The bus continued down the road, either too stunned or too numbed by its daily routine to stop. To Harry’s surprise, few cars stopped. Some had pulled over to look up at the space rock cleaving across the red afternoon sky like a butcher’s knife through bloody meat, but most went about their business. 

Harry sat on the floor, looking up through the window as the meteor approached. He guessed he was about five minutes from his home. Five minutes until he could see his mother for the first time in three years, and he assumed, five minutes until the meteor crashed into the Earth.

###

The Lester’s Saturday was interrupted by a rude clap. The sound loud enough to drown out Thomas Lester’s lawn mower. Thomas and his wife, Mary, glanced from their chores up to the meteor that seared across the horizon. Mary hid under the family SUV and called to her children, Arthur and Martin, who could not hear her over the lawn mower. 

“Do you see that?” Marry called to her husband over the growling mower.

“What?” Thomas yelled and cut the power.

“Do you see that? It’s a meteor! What do we do?”

Thomas looked from his wife, to his kids, and then to the growing space rock. alarms blared and dogs barked and there was screaming in the distance. “Do you think the basement will be safe?”

Their neighbors, the Rogers, watched the meteor from the window while Mister and Misses Bradley’s minivan swerved across the lawn and into the Roger’s front door. The car crumpled and the trunk popped like a soda can, spewing mashed groceries for their Sunday barbeque across the ravaged lawn.

“Dad, is that an asteroid?” Walter asked his father, Barry Rogers.

“No, it’s a meteor,” Barry said to his son.

Through the open window they heard showtunes play over the Bradley’s car radio, but the static made it tough to makeout. Barry turned to Walter and hugged him.

In one stunted breath, Washington Boulevard, at the heart of Kentucky, froze like the grinding gears of a rusty machine. A town over, Miss Smith cut her math lesson short as the students would not focus on their studies despite the quiz in the morning. Not far away, Doctor Black bit his lip and nearly botched Martha Gallagher’s facial reduction surgery after his clinic shook from the meteors arrival.

Hard working people across the eastern seaboard found the imminent meteor a great inconvenience to their daily lives. And while many just stood and watched the inevitable hammer fall, many tried their best to get their work done.

###

Across the world, things were not much different. In the early Chinese morning, a Feng Mian Wang gave birth to her healthy son, Zhang Yong on the fourteenth floor of the Beijing United Family Hospital. News of the approaching meteor mattered not compared to the joy she held in her arms. Seven thousand miles away, in the Congo Rainforest a team studying rare mountain apes clambered to capture footage of the majestic beast, their only hint of the meteor that of the sudden pop that echoed across the canopy. In truth, there were many people who were simply not aware of the meteor. Billions across the world, heads looking everywhere but up. Millions unknowing of the meteor closing in on the North American East Coast. And even if they did, what could be done? 

Sure enough, those under the shadow of the void boulder seemed to figure out what they could do in their last several minutes of life. They screamed.

And then the meteor hit.

At two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, the doctors came to get me. I watch their somber parade cut across my lawn and tromp up my stone path. Over six months had passed since I finished testing. Now they were back, five of them at my doorstep.

I waited for the inevitable knock and open the door. “Can we come in?” The first one, Doctor Rae, asked; he leads the little crew of doctors, and was the first one I met during trails. White strips streaked through his slate-black hair. He smelt of latex gloves and alcohol.

I nod, and the gaggle of doctors enter, tracking dirt onto my beige carpet. They ignore my request to remove their footwear and crowd my living room with their hands behind their backs. They cock their heads like chickens, scanning the ceilings and walls as if my living room were booby-trapped.

“Do you know why we are here, Daniel?”

I decline. The other doctors snap looks between each other.

“Tell us what you remember about your visit with us.”

I told them, playing their game like the obedient puppet they wanted me to be. I recounted the trails, the vitamin-implant they placed in my chest, and my responses to the ordeal. The procedure was meant to ward off many ailments, diseases, and even—bold as the claim was—aging. Of course, that was all nonsense. After a short period, I was dismissed with nothing more than a two percent decrease in contracting strep throat.

“Anything else?” Doctor Rae pressed. One of the doctors behind him, a lump of a man with a red face, holds the glassy-eyed look of one about to pass out.

I shake my head.

“Please, Daniel, sit.”

Now he’s asking me to sit down in my own house. I follow his orders again, more so hoping that the faster I cooperate, the faster they will leave. Six months and now this. How did they even find me? I didn’t give them my new address. 

“Do you remember Maryanne?”

I answer this and his following questions. I recite my memories like the lab rat they saw me as, telling them of the few moments I interacted with my fellow test subjects. I also mention how I never saw her leave her testing room. 

“She’s shown signs of…degradation. The side effects are not ideal. How have you been feeling over the last six months?”

Degradation? What the hell is that supposed to mean? 

I tell him that I’ve felt fine, and the doctors gasp as if on cue. Only Doctor Rae keeps the conversation going. The others watch with their mouths gaping half-open.

“Are you happy with your home?”

What are they hoping to get out of harassing me? I answer his questions, but my responses are short, and I force myself to hold back my frustration. The round doctor takes a step towards the door, wiping the sweat that glazed his face.

Doctor Rae continues, “We were wondering if you would be able to come with us. We have a few more tests we would like to run.”

I tell him I have work in the morning and that it was nice of them to visit, but it was time to leave. To my relief, Doctor Rae nods and escorts the doctors out of my living room like a herd of lame sheep.

Before he leaves, he turns to me. He stands there for a long second; I can’t help but shiver at the wide look in his eye. “Please, if you feel anything…peculiar, please call us.”

I agree and close the door before he can turn around.

###

One week later, the doctors return.

“Can we come in?” Doctor Rae asks.

I peer over his shoulder. The same four huddle behind him, even the round man; the green in his complexion betrays his stoic face. The man’s sense of nausea is almost palpable.

I reluctantly agree and step aside. I ask them to take their shoes off. The doctors look at me with bugged eyes.

“Do you know why we are here, Daniel?” 

I suggest it is because of Maryanne, and he is pleased with my answer. “Good, you remember. We are keeping a close eye on Maryanne, do not worry about her. But, we are concerned that you may begin displaying similar symptoms as she. You have not contacted us.”

I tell him that I’ve felt fine. The doctors look at me as if I just killed their mother. All of them, besides Doctor Rae, take a step towards the door. I am getting tired of them, and I don’t hide my annoyance.

“Daniel, please understand. We are just trying to make sure you’re okay. The testing can have strange effects. I insist you come with us so we can examine the implant. Mariane—“

I interrupt him and ask him to leave. Again, Doctor Rae bows his head and makes his way to the door. The other doctors nearly sprint past him and scramble across my lawn.

Doctor Rae turns, and I close the door before he can speak.

I watch them through my window. They pile into their blue Jeep like clowns. Doctor Rae sees me watching and gives me a polite wave. I do not wave back and close the blinds.

###

Again, one week later, they are back. I open the door before the doctors step foot on my walkway and tell them to go away.

“Daniel. We need to get you back to the laboratory. Marianne, she passed away two days ago. We are afraid the same thing will happen to you.”

Of course I’m worried, but I have felt no adverse side effects since the trials—It was supposed to be a vitamin after all. If anything, I’ve felt better than normal. I tell him this and ask him to leave me alone. The other doctors wait in their Jeep with the windows up, watching me like a horror movie.

I ask Doctor Rae about them.

“They are worried about you. We are all worried about you. Please, Daniel. We need to get you out of your house. We won’t take much of your time.”

I close the door and walk back to my couch. I can see Doctor Rae’s shadow through the blinds, and after five minutes, he gets back in his car and drives away.

The next month goes by without any visits. I go about my days like every other: working from home, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house, and watching TV. I exercise, I call my parents every other week and overall feel about as healthy as I’d expect. 

Just as I began to believe they’d given up, knocking interrupts my afternoon nap.

I open the door to Doctor Rea. He is alone, his usual smile replaced by a shadowed grimace. Stringy, white hair mats his head.

His eyes widen as I take a step forward and ask why he’s here.

Doctor Rae doesn’t move, but I sense him tense. 

“D-Daniel,” he catches himself and continues, “This is my last request. Please come back to the laboratory. We are worried about your situation. You may not believe us, and I don’t want to alarm you, but you are not well.”

At this point, I figure they are just trying to cover any legal issues. They had a fatality in their records. I’m sure they’re buried over their heads right now, and the last thing they’d want is another body on their hands. I was a liability they couldn’t afford. If I went with him, he’d have me sign some more paperwork for who knows how long. I assure him that I feel fine and remind him about the release form I signed over seven months ago. I had not agreed to the constant pestering of nosey men in white coats.

I decline his request.

Doctor Rae goes pale. His body shivers as he steps back, but the distance seems to calm some part of him. “Are you sure about this?”

I close the door, and as I slide the lock in place, I hear him mutter something. I can’t quite make it out, but it sounds like an apology.

Framed in my window, Doctor Rei scurries back to his Jeep. The mud-covered wheels squeal out as he reverses out of my driveway. He does not turn back.

I sigh, close the blinds, and return to my couch.

###

Heavy doors hiss shut behind Doctor Rae. Scalding water hoses his naked body, and power vents blast him dry. The doctor continues to shudder, his hands shaking as he zips up a fresh coat. He incinerates his old clothes and steps out of decontamination. On the other side of the hallway, immediately through the far door, he wretches into the nearest waste bin. 

A crowd of doctors watch him.

“Did he finally agree?” Doctor Meldin asks, dabbing the rivers of sweat from his apple-red face.

Doctor Rae wipes his mouth on his sleeve and speaks into the waste bin, “He won’t come out.” 

There is a moment of stillness as the doctors look to the observation window.

“He still can’t see it, can he? What will we do with him?” 

Doctor Rae stands straight, flattens his coat and tries to obtain his composure. The fetid stench still burns his nose and throat. His ears echo the buzzing of a thousand flies.

He says, “The artifact is part of him. He won’t leave. This can’t go on any longer. I’m ordering an end to this test, now.”

Meldin watches Doctor Rae pass. He moves through the others like a boat parting through murky waters. The scent accompanying the doctor, even after decontamination, lingers like an undying miasma. Doctor Rei then exits the observation room and leaves the others to watch as his orders are given. 

Inside Daniel’s containment, squats what had once been a house. Although built only months ago, years of entropy scar the structure, as if the building itself had undergone rigor mortis. The lawn, once green, lay shriveled like stained fingernails, and pustules of bloated rot clump along the cracked pathway writhing maggots. Visible through window blinds of festering intestine, the figure that had once been Daniel Hopkins slumps forward. It sat on a vibrating couch of gnats and flies, skeletal fingers clicking over a broken remote control that pointed at a collapsed television encased in fungus. The little flesh that clung to its bones sloughed off like rotten fruit. Only one eye, shriveled like a rancid grape, hung in its exposed, yellow skull. Lodged behind its ribs, wrapped in a womb of sinew and bile, nestles a singular black diamond. It pulses like a stagnant heart. Thump after thump, decay seeping from the black organ. 

A beep pierces the laboratory. Deep, crimson light washes over the rotting abode. The cadaver man sat in blissful ignorance. It watches the TV that wasn’t there, and the doctors watch the man that wasn’t there. The room rumbles and the doctors hold their breath. Then, springing up from the bloody darkness, erupt gouts of fire that engulf Daniel’s home in a flood of cleansing heat.

 “It’s another failure,” Doctor Meldin mewls. Burning orange reflects off his sweaty face. “Another failure.”

Golden hash browns fell onto the plate of another glassy-eyed human. The Kitchen hummed, hissed, and bubbled. Water boiled on stovetops, ovens crisped pastries and pans simmered eggs and bacon. Exhausted faces shuffled down the breakfast bar, weary from another night hollowing the asteroid’s depths.

Plates out, they picked at the food before them. No “please,” no “thank you.” They just grabbed their biscuits, bagels, muffins, or toast, poured their coffee, and took their seats.

The facility held one hundred and seventy-four humans separated into three shifts of fifty-eight miners. Fifty-eight miners sent to eat, sleep, excavate and repeat. Accordingly, across three cafeterias, the Kitchen prepared five hundred and twenty-two meals per day: one hundred and seventy-four breakfasts, one hundred and seventy-four lunches, and one hundred and seventy-four dinners served to the exact portion.

Ingredients pulled from across the solar system spread over the Kitchen’s counters. Robotic arms rubbed lunar salts, Martian hibiscus, and powdered Saturn mint into meats and sprinkled paprika on omelets. Lantern eggs popped, neon yellow in thick pans, while charred salamander steaks dripped sticky fat over grill tops. Steaming broths, spattering grease, and melting fats swirled together in delectable aromas that fell flat against cold, automated metal. Meal after meal slid into ovens and onto platters, each one a crafted delicacy that the Kitchen had no way of tasting and no way of smelling.

Not one circuit reflected on this. Spatulas never halted to sniff a sausage. Stovetops never flickered to lick a pancake. Constant commands, orders, ones, and zeros fired unhindered through the Kitchen’s inner workings. Recipes distilled to a breath, preparations a blink. Work comparable to the best human chefs executed in the time it took to swallow.

By 9:30 A.M. station-time, the Kitchen switched from cooking to cleaning. Pod-shaped maintenance drones zipped along the linoleum floor, retrieving abandoned trays and regurgitating garbage down trash chutes. While the Kitchen cleaned, the humans stood from their seats. They whispered of alien things; disturbing tales muttered about unknown tunnels and forbidden artifacts. Imaginative stories spun among each shift changing in scope and detail, but always lurking behind weary eyes and grim faces. The Kitchen ignored these haunting words.

Scalding water sprayed batter-crusted bowls, doused, wiped, and dried while forks, spoons, and knives clanged together at the basin of deep-set sinks. Tales regarding asteroid curses and apparitions did not concern the Kitchen. It had a routine to follow, and it would complete this routine for the three hundred and twenty-fourth time without interruption.

When the final human dragged its heavy boots through the cafeteria doors, the Kitchen existed in a moment of stillness. Humming drying racks reverberated across the vast room. Whirring treads shut down as the last drone tucked away. Fans spun long shadows over dark tables, and the tick-ticking of cooling metal pricked off ovens and stoves.

One hundred and seventy-nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds later, as the station clock ticked 11:00 P.M., a beep pierced the silence. Metal hands lifted crates from storage cellars. Meats, vegetables, fruits, cheeses, spices, and breads tumbled onto cleared countertops, sorted and prepped. Sharpened knives cut fresh velvet pies and filleted shanks of polar-hog. Pulping machines mashed tubers from Neptune, and peelers stripped ruddy flesh off hydra fruits. Soup stock, ground from Haumean groupers and melon carrots filled wide heating vats, and dollops of twice-aged quasar cheese layered glowing salads.

As chowders finished warming, slices of marbled salami blanketed plump sandwich halves. Streams of fresh juice and gallons of chilled milk drained into serving machines. The final ham haunch slid across the serving bar two minutes before the first human entered the cafeteria.

By 11:10 P.M. station time, fatigued, soot-covered humans entered cafeteria: B, lining up at the serving bar. Sandwiches dropped on trays, two a tray. Machines dispensed flavored drinks, water, juice, and coffee into polished metal cups. Ladles scooped into deep vats of steaming soup like excavating cranes, and tongs emptied bathtub-sized bowls of salad. Every human got their share; each meal served to order. Humans will work, and the Kitchen will cook. Humans will eat, and the Kitchen will clean; a routine that cycled two thousand one hundred and ninety times throughout the next two years.

The Kitchen continued, oblivious to the stories that festered among the miners. It could not see the restlessness rising in each face, or the nervous glances towards the crater fields with each increasing tremor. Time nurtured these stories into truthful rumors, and on the one hundred and second day of the third year, at 1:28 P.M. station-time, inside cafeteria: A, these rumors became terrifying fact.

Sixteen loaves of crystal-bread slipped over mahogany cutting boards as the first eruption shook the cafeteria. A slab of rock punched up through the floor and crushed two miners at the ice cream bar. Pans of sautéed sweet-root flipped their sticky contents as three more holes burst like concrete geysers. Tables 12, 8, 4, and 15 snapped in half, launching humans as if they were shot from grav-chutes. Chaos shook the cafeteria. Mess after mess reported from the Kitchen’s computer like the blast charges in the mines below. Strange sounds hissed and sizzled over clattering debris.

Cleaning procedures activated two minutes early for the first time since installation, deploying an army of drones across the cafeteria. Each disaster point was located and secluded like white blood cells routing out some infection. They vacuumed under stomping feet and falling trays. Some mopped, others hosed, and all got in the way of the raging stampede. 

Commands hammered inside the Kitchen’s circuitry.

Clean up spill: table 3. Clean up spill: table 7. Clean up spill: table 16.

Humans cluttered the cafeteria floor lunging at each other in a tangled, fleshy mess. Alien cries, braying howls, and mewling screams fell silent on the Kitchen’s deaf metal. If it was possible, the Kitchen may have felt confused or even frustrated. Chores proceeded in the whirling anarchy, hindered by missing tools and broken parts. Sauces scraped off broken dishes. Drones squeezed heavy rags over overflowing buckets. Bloody leftovers smeared dented seats. Tables toppled into sinkholes, and utensils jammed into walls and lights.

After scooping organic matter from an unconscious human, the Kitchen attempted to decipher the situation impeding its cleanup protocol. It checked through its previous morning, running diagnostics on its service arms and quality checking its provisions. Everything passed inspection. The new holes in its floor showed no sign of previous instability; the space below consisted of twelve feet of concrete. The only variable left unknown were the humans.

The Kitchen counted the humans and then counted again. Each time the number came up incorrect: two hundred and sixty-eight. It ran this miscalculation through five thousand iterations, and the same count returned: two hundred and sixty-eight. Four more humans than the original two hundred and sixty-four. This was not an error. At that moment, if any emotion reflected the Kitchen’s state, it would have been panic.

It had not prepared enough food to fulfill the nutritional intake of four more humans.

The Kitchen did not care that these additional humans were anomalies, nor did it pay attention to the strange artifacts grafted into the warped flesh of their disfigured bodies. It could not process the way the strangers pounced from their tunnels, tearing and slashing through the crowds of panicking miners. It ignored the newcomer’s personal records that marked them deceased over a decade ago. When it ran its scans, they returned human. Natural or not, the Kitchen did not have any way, or reason, to care about their unknown origins, only how it would implement them into its culinary system. If its current issues did stem from an improper balance in the worker population, then the proper meals must be made.

But the mess kept growing.

The humans seemed determined in their carnage. They pulled and tore, smearing the floors. The additional four fired weapons fused of muscle that drowned screams the Kitchen could not hear. Fresh star plums mashed under maddened fists, and bowls of sugar bulbs shattered. Beverage machines belched pools of burning coffee and bled rivers of thickening milk. Drones vacuumed broken glass and mopped crimson pools. One of the mechanical cleaners crumpled under a collapsing tile, its remains cannibalized by its brethren. The Kitchen proceeded as the yawning floor consumed broken bodies and damaged drones. It had under one hour to prepare four more meals and begin dinner; all waste was to be disposed of.

Drones dragged corpses back to the Kitchen, tossing cadavers down garbage chutes where other automated systems handled their removal and pushed broken tables into eruption tunnels to temporarily cover the gaps. Like a parade of silver ants, the drones ferried wreckage, food, and bodies from the piling mess. The Kitchen did not pause to question this, concluding its actions as an effective solution to complete cleaning protocols.

The four unaccounted for skulked before the serving bar, no doubt waiting for their unprepared meals. They snapped mutated jaws on scraps of meat and lapped the puddling floors with vine-like tongues. They ignored the drones that pulled slumped workers from tables and mopped sanguine spills. Two of the strangers leaped upon a crawling worker, legs broken during the initial eruption. It became another mess for the Kitchen to clean. 

As their meals neared completion, drones cut trays from rigid hands piled high with half-eaten paninis. Sponges sopping with cold coffee and warm juice squelched black liquid into used cups. The Kitchen tried its best to gather the freshest scraps to keep from violating all health protocols. Of course, a few exceptions slipped through. Whatever it took to accomplish its task.

The Kitchen wiped its counters and rang the lunch bell as a hooked appendage cut through a ham roast. Hollow, inhuman cries, echoed unheard in the cafeteria, as strange shapes scuttled over still bodies, skin writhing like gelatin. The Kitchen did not see the frozen fits of rage and hate that stretched over their half-human skulls. Elongated bone, sharpened to a blade’s edge, replaced arms, legs, hands, and feet, each wrapped in corded sinew. The human-things clicked and called, sifting through the wreckage like birds through carrion. They picked clean much of the mess, unbiased in their consumption, before pushing their disfigured bodies through the exit doors and deeper into the station.

Drones slurped up the macabre remnants, wiping and polishing the linoleum clean. Humming drying racks reverberated across the abandoned room, and the tick-ticking of cooling metal pricked off ovens and stoves. The last serving arms tucked away as the final body folded into disposal. Outside the cafeteria, muted screams echoed down winding corridors. 

Seven minutes and fifty-nine seconds later, as the internal clock ticked 5:00 P.M. station-time, a beep pierced the silence. The kitchen ran a population count: One hundred and sixteen humans remained on the station. Minutes later, it counted again: fifty-eight humans remained on the station. When after twenty minutes passed and no workers arrived, it ran its count once more: four more humans remained on the station. The Kitchen processed this headcount once, twice, and then two thousand more times. It adjusted its orders, ingredients, and tools accordingly. The number returned positive one final time: four humans remained on the station.

Time to prepare for dinner.