I look at clouds in the distance, shading my eyes from sun with hand. It's been 288 weeks since I've last seen a plane. My horse, Dazzel, is tugging at grass sprouting between cracks in the road. They warned us we were running out of IPv4 addresses, but nobody listened.

289 weeks ago I was at my job in the factory, stamping an IP address on every bullet. We used them for everything back then, thinking the good times would never end. A week later, planes started losing DHCP leases and crashing. One of them, carrying my husband.

On my waist is a holstered revolver, its fraying leatherwork digging into my side through its weight. Each bullet is stamped with an IP address that could have been used by my husband's plane. That weighs heavier.

Each bullet I fire is an attempt at penance, stamped with proof of my sin. Their trails of blood trace across the land, fingers too important to let heal as they try to claw us back from oblivion.

My name is Enata Macey, and I helped kill the world.