Jeevan and Frank pass the early days of the Georgia Flu barricaded in Frank’s Toronto apartment, bickering to relieve the tension while the television murmurs constant catastrophe. Jeevan tries to seal them off from infection by taping plastic over air ducts, blocking the windows with towels, and pushing a dresser in front of the door. When strangers knock, both men freeze in silence, and twice they endure attempted break-ins, listening as someone scratches at the lock until the deadbolt holds.

From the corner living room, Jeevan watches the city through Frank’s telescope: for two days traffic still moves, cars overloaded with bins and suitcases, but by the third day the expressway locks into gridlock and people start walking away between the stalled vehicles. As days slip by, the news begins to feel unreal and then visibly degrades—anchors vanish, replaced by network staff speaking haltingly, while reports from other cities and countries go dark one by one.

Eventually only a single newsroom shot remains on air, with employees taking turns sharing whatever scraps of information they have, until one night the camera shows an empty room and then goes dead. The other channels are static or loop government emergency advice, and soon after, the Internet disappears. The city grows quieter each morning; Frank attributes it to everyone running out of gas, and Jeevan realizes that even those with fuel can’t leave because roads will be choked by abandoned cars.

Frank keeps writing his ghostwriting project—the memoir of a philanthropist who is likely already dead—because the contract gives him something to cling to. Jeevan, with his phone now useless, stares at the lake and thinks about how “impersonal” modern life was actually a fragile web of human labor; as people stop going to work, fuel, food, transportation, and utilities collapse in sequence. While Jeevan is looking out the window, the power finally goes out, and Frank dismisses Jeevan’s hope that it might be a local problem.

Around Day Thirty, a few days after the running water ends, the apartment begins to feel like a childhood tree house: isolated, defended, and strangely calm at moments. Jeevan inventories their stored water and catches snow on the balcony, reassuring himself they can wait for rescue or a return to normal. Frank presses the question that Jeevan can’t answer—what reason is there to believe the lights will ever come back?