Because the thing about the end of the world is that it happens all the time. Someone leaves and it's the end of the world. Someone comes back and it's the end of the world. Somebody puts their cock in you and it's the end of the world. Somebody stops putting their cock in you and it's the end of the world. Here is a novel about mothering, wolves, bicycles, midwifery, post-apocalyptic feminism, gold, hunger and hope. It's about an underachieving millennial, a retired midwife and a charismatic Dubliner who set out from London after the end of the world to cycle to a sanctuary in the southern Alps. It's about the porousness of the female bodily experience, the challenges of being an empiricist with a sample size of one, what's worth knowing, what's worth living, and the necessity of irrationality. It's about the fact that the world ends all the time, and it's about what to try to do next.
