There was a flash on the western horizon outshining the sun, like God Almighty taking one last vacation photograph before packing up and heading home. Billy Fisher didn't look up. Didn't need to. That was Greensboro, which had lasted six minutes longer than Raleigh.

Billy [i]did[/i] look up when the diner's door creaked open, letting in the dirge of the civil defense sirens. Then he did a double-take. It was Franklin Smalls—one dark hand holding the door just above the WHITES ONLY sign, the other pushing his glasses up the bridge of his broad, flat nose. Franklin hesitated for a moment as he met Billy's stare, and then took a single step forward, smoothed down his dress shirt, and let the door swing shut behind him.

Billy leaned forward, wrinkled hands on the counter, lips curling into a sneer under his graying mustache. "My God," he said, "you got balls comin' back here."

Franklin shrugged, splaying palms to the sky, and wryly flashed too-white teeth. "Why not? We're both dead men walking. Six thousand Russian nukes in the air—that's a hundred twenty per state, and there's no way Durham's not on that list." He took languid strides up to the counter and slid onto the stool in front of Billy. "Reckon I wouldn't mind a last burger before I meet God."

"We closed with the sirens." Billy flicked his chin at the empty restaurant around them. "Git."

Franklin laughed, less humor than pain. "You think I'd be here if I had anywhere else to go?"

"Away's a place to go," Billy said—then added more softly, trying to be charitable, "You leave now, you might make it outta Durham before the bomb hits. Drive out into the woods. I hear there's some big nigger farms near Hampton."

"Don't own a car," Franklin said. "Why aren't [i]you[/i] driving out?"

Billy stared silently into Franklin's unflinching gaze, then turned to the grill, reaching into the cooler for a hamburger patty and tossing it on. After a moment, he pulled out another for himself.

"I'm just cookin' this cause it don't matter any more," Billy said over his shoulder as the meat juices started to crackle. "I hope you ain't fixin' for an apology."

"I'm fixin' for a burger," Franklin said. "Reckon the rest is between you and Jesus, now."

Billy whirled around, pointing a finger. "And you don't think [i]you've[/i] gotta answer to Him? All your kind's lawbreaking and riots? You don't think this is His judgment on America leavin' His word behind?"

"Course I've gotta answer to Jesus," Franklin said quietly. "And I'll tell Him, I listened when He said He watches how we treat the least among us. And I listened when America said all men are created equal. And I sat down at this counter until you called the cops on me because I believed that America could do better at both jobs."

Billy scowled. "And look where that got us." 

"Fighting with each other instead of Khrushchev."

The grill hissed in concert with the muffled sirens as Billy paused to think about that. Then he reached under the counter, brought up a bottle of Tennessee whiskey, and poured two shots into water glasses, sliding one to Franklin. Franklin nodded, lifted the glass, and clinked its rim to Billy's. They drank wordlessly.

Franklin set his glass down, put his elbows on the counter, and leaned forward, head in hands. "You think the burgers are gonna be done before the end?"

"Don't reckon so," Billy said. "I'll serve 'em red, but right now they're just raw meat."

Franklin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "At least we've got the smell."

In the corner of his eye, Billy imagined he saw a shadow flit down the street, long and thin and impossibly fast. He, too, closed his eyes and inhaled.