Suddenly, the center of the earth took an oceanic breath in—and never let it out. Eventually, the only ebb and flow was trickle and evaporation. No one wanted this to happen—everyone knew it was bound. New hotels were constructed in front of what used to be oceanfront resorts. No one expected a twenty-first-century land grab—everyone wanted some. Architects built something like skyscrapers, only upside down, underground, to fill the space where sea and mammals used to be. I knew a guy who lived 32 floors subterranean. He said it was exactly how you’d imagine: darker than sleep; quieter than the womb; nice and cool. When he’d get drunk, he’d sway—like he was a phantom limb of something they used to call a wave.