The cold night wind tangled Monty Wat’s long beard the minute he stepped foot out of the truck. The moon had decided not to make an appearance and the sky was dressed in impenetrable blackness.

  It was more than accurate to say that the Wave had altered the course of the lives of practically every human being. Just as unquestionable was the fact that wars and disturbances during the first years following it contributed to even more drastic changes in the lives of the survivors. Adapting to the new environment had become an indispensible requirement and the survival instinct had developed more than if an evolutionary shift had occurred. For all these reasons, and for several others, Monty swore every night about having kept the same job, the same shift, and the same conditions he had before the Wave. And to top it all off, the only change he had experienced in his work life was a reduction in his salary.

  Grumbling to himself, Monty walked around the truck trying not to slip on any icy patches. The light from the street lights wasn’t enough to see his surroundings clearly, especially because several bulbs had stopped working a while ago and no one had bothered to change them. That didn’t surprise Monty. The low temperatures had put an end to almost all nightlife in the city. Almost no one went out at night if they could avoid it. The cold air got even icier and turned breathing into an exercise in physical fitness. People preferred to hole up inside.

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  After forty years of doing the same work, Monty was absolutely immersed in his routine. He wasn’t even aware of pushing the button on the back part of the truck. Without any active collaboration from his brain, his right hand simply pressed it when he walked past it. A metallic screeching broke the silence of the night. Monty hummed a little melody to himself as he went over to the trash can, grabbed it with both hands and started to pull it toward him as he walked backwards. The wheels that should have been attached to the bottom of it had long since disappeared and the base of the can began to collect snow as it was dragged toward the truck.

  Monty was two steps from the vehicle when his back ran into something hard, and he slipped in the snow from the unexpected collision. He turned around and saw a dark, clean-shaven head watching him from its more than six-foot-six-inch height. He was completely incapable of tearing his gaze away from the gigantic black man that was hanging over him.

  Monty was about to say something but he never got to open his mouth.

  A powerful blow hit him full in the stomach. The trash collector instantly doubled over, blinded by an intense pain and a severe lack of oxygen. He put his hand on the ground and inhaled as deeply as he could. A piece of cloth covered his nose and his mouth, and he lost consciousness within seconds.

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