Millions of people left the coasts and ran into the dry middle of the country. The plains and prairies were filled with tents and lean-tos. Smoke rose from fire pits as the tall grass and grain bent in the strong winds.

The coasts flooded. The storm crashed and smashed the cities that had harbours.
But the people in the dry middle of the country were safe.
Safe for now.

The country was flooded. People said they only had half the land they used to.
And even then, it was the dry, grassy rolling hills in the middle. The people used to walking on concrete and in the dark valleys of skyscraper were the first to go insane.

They picked up rocks and held them to their ears and spoke in them. Other people laughed and then the rock talkers became rock throwers. Many people died before the groups split apart, each to their own corner of the grassy island. Jealousy flared and anger stewed. They made weapons and raided the other camps. Wounding and killing.

And then the wolves arrived.