It’s a little after eight in the morning, and I’m getting ready to become a mother. I woke up only vaguely in character — I imagined a soldier would have the discipline to get up with the alarm, then justified my need for sleep as a pragmatic maximization of resources. An hour or two later, I’m completely immersed. When the three women I spent last night playing poker with agree to form a family unit with me and raise two daughters, one of them welcomes me as the Lieutenant. “You don’t have to keep saying that,” I tell her. I’m almost crying. “You can call me Sharon.” Sharon, who served in Afghanistan before helping run the fertility program that could help the human race continue, has existed for less than 24 hours, but she’s developed friends, political leanings, and a complicated relationship with the disaster that — three years ago — killed off every man on earth. Then the door opens, and we realize that not every man is dead.