I saw a fox walk down the middle of Yaesunodori street in Tokyo the other day. It was a vixen, pregnant, searching for a den for her litter. A few pedestrians saw her and stopped to watch. Once it would’ve been unheard of to see a wild fox in the heart of Tokyo. When Tokyo was the largest city in the world, a sprawling megalopolis of concrete and steel towers and houses crushed together abutting elevated rails and jammed roads. When the only animals here were humans and their allies, the birds and dogs and rats. The vixen vanished down a frozen escalator leading to the subway. The trains only ran for a few hours each day now, during what remained of the rush hour. Otherwise they were dark and still. Just the sort of nest a fox might need. I silently wished her well, glanced up at the clear sky to search for new stars, and went about my day. [hr] “I’m going to Hachioji this weekend,” Maki said. “My husband’s staying there with his sister. I think I’ll stay a while, too.” I nodded. Hachioji was a popular spot in Tokyo these days. Just a shade over 40 kilometers from the heart of the city – a respectable, safe distance. Most models showed a nearly 100 percent survival rate in Hachioji. “What about work?” I asked. Maki lifted the surgical mask covering her mouth long enough to take a sip of mugicha. “Quit yesterday. They were going to lay us off anyway. No customers anymore. Who wants to advertise in Tokyo these days? Gold coins to a cat.” I smiled, more out of politeness than true humor. Unlike most Tokyo residents, I didn’t bother with a mask. I always thought they were depersonalizing, and most studies showed they were ineffective against radiation anyway. Unless you had a full-face mask with HEPA filters, you might as well stay inside. “I guess we won’t see each other for a while, then,” I said. “We will,” she said. The words seemed to leap out of her, emphatic, more a reflex than the product of considered thought. In the silence that followed she froze, leaning forward out of her seat. I couldn’t gage the full expression on her face, only the slight widening of her eyes. “Sorry,” I said. “Of course we will.” We finished our tea in silence, both of us stargazing on a sunny afternoon. Over a nearby radio, a woman read the weekend’s weather, followed by the latest plume forecast from North Korea and the hunt for the last remaining Gorae. [hr] They say the last thing we will see is a new star, appearing high above. To those far away, the star will actually be a streak, like a rushing comet blasting toward the earth. But for those of us beneath it, in the target zone, it will simply be a spot, growing brighter and brighter in the sky. It will only appear for a few seconds, so only those of us lucky enough to be outside and watching the heavens will see it arrive. I remember watching the fires across the Sea of Japan. The whole horizon glowed, punctuated by bright flashes as American missiles detonated over their targets. Even from over the horizon they left me blinking away ghostly afterimages. The war began, and ended, over three months ago. It only lasted thirty minutes – the fastest war in human history. Millions died. In places, the bedrock itself melted. And, horrible it might have been, at least the North Korean sword was removed from the world’s neck. And the Americans promised that, any day now, they would find North Korea’s missile submarines. The Goraes can only hold ten missiles each. At least, that's the hope. And they may all be sunk by now, rusting on the bottom of the ocean. Or they may be lying in Tokyo Bay, waiting for the day to surface. I don't blame Mika for leaving, or the millions of others. As much as I love this city, I've felt it myself, the desire to flee, while staring up at the sky. Waiting for a new star above Tokyo.