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The moment my lips stopped kissing the end of my trumpet, and the number I’d just played finished echoing across the busy riverside boulevard, cheers washed over me like a tide of Mississippi water.

As the group of mammals slowly left, most of them bothered to toss either morsels of gold or some wrapped pieces of food inside the paper bag standing in front of my bare toes. The sight of a tossed gold nugget from a well-dressed wolf (at least, comparably to pre-Collapse times) made my lynx tail wag behind me. The wolf did the same for the other musicians playing at spacious distances from me, tossing nuggets the size of tiny pearls.

“Thank you!” I waved, purring happily and bowing to those still clapping their paws. A chilly burst of autumn wind made me reward myself in my ragged long coat. “Thank you! I’ll be here again at high noon!”

Even after the apocalypse, I still loved St. Louis. It didn’t matter of the summers were hotter or the winters were sometimes colder and much longer. Compared to other ghost towns and deserted cities across the continent, my hometown somehow managed to remain an active hub for travelers and settlers, only we didn’t call ourselves Americans as much as we used to. We were citizens of the Mississippi Nation, born and raised along the great river that allowed us to go up and down the former United States, trading and traveling between other similar settlements willing to open their gates. A fleet of scavengers along the Gulf of Mexico could theoretically salvage supplies from the ruins of coastal towns, guide their boat upriver along the Mississippi to St. Louis, then settle there to trade their minerals and scavenged items in exchange for supplies or foodstuffs before floating back down the river to do it all over again. Or with the other mentioned settlements and fiefdoms willing to trade with anyone carrying the Nation flag.

In the case of St. Louis, we happened to be the heart of the new nation, and eagerly allowed scavengers and traders alike inside our walls. Some of them were more than willing to pay me for a song or two on my precious trumpet. After everything, from starving to struggling to stay warm during the first harsh winter, I somehow kept her.

After walking away with the goods in my heavy paper bag, I stopped at a bench looking out towards the half-flooded riverfront. The wide, watery snake looked so beautiful, illuminated by the descending sunlight. Too many houseboats, sailboats, outfitted ships and other vessels floated downstream, while some fought against the current to go north. The silhouette of the world-famous Archway could be spotted on the other end of the small sea.

Placing my trumpet case against my leg, I pilfered through the bag to see the day’s pay. “Sweet!” I muttered to myself, sniffing some packages and examining the nuggets of precious metals. “Some gold, tin—is that silver?—one ball of platinum wire…Oh! Some beef jerky! How’d they keep it fresh?”

I perked an ear to make sure nobody heard me muttering. Not wanting to risk it further, I grasped the bag in my feline claws and started approaching my apartment. The same one I lived in most of my adult life, minus the greedy ursine landlord.

Making sure to keep both trumpet and bag of goodies from view under my long coat, I navigated through the crowd of other mammals on the street. Most chose to walk while others rode on outfitted bicycles. Plenty kept their distance, a good portion of them being outsiders. The buildings that surrounded us, including the nearby skyscrapers, had been heavily modified over the years, if not decayed. Wood and metal replaced plenty of glass. Asphalt lots became campgrounds for caravans. Parking garages transformed into either communal greenhouses or permanent residences that resembled concrete shantytowns. More often than not, plenty of mammals called buildings that used to be office spaces their home, including my former workplace.

Passing by the generic-looking office building, now defaced from weather damage with the windows broken and cracked, I didn’t look long at the ugly structure. At some point in the previous years, it had turned into an open den for prostitution and drugs. In fact, I spotted at least one couple fornicating behind the overgrown bushes, and another just lying underneath the foyer, smoking weed. Any law enforcement who spotted either of them wouldn’t bother, not with their focus being on breaking up gunfights.

Just being near it, standing outside the front entrance of the building brought back unpleasant memories. It did each time I walked by it on my way home. Fortunately, my lynx ears didn’t fold as heavily as it used to, and my toes didn’t curl in shame. Each day, it got easier, and sometimes I hardly noticed during my daily journey to the waterfront.

I never wondered what happened to my bosses, if they were dead or survived somewhere else. Call it selfish and callous, but it was the truth. A small part of me only hoped that the Collapse changed them for the better, like it did for me. It made them less demanding, less manipulative, and more kind. A part of me also hoped that whoever lived in what used to be my former bosses’ offices, was making the most of it.

Once upon a time, I slaved every day for a pension, Roth IRA, insurance I would never use, and a security blanket that all proved useless. I only found true happiness either in the bed of a handsome man or woman, or whenever I played onstage at one of the blues club. A pity that only one of them remained open, and only on the weekends. At the same time, the fat tips earned from generous strangers (who had likely not heard real music in over four years) made up for my abundance of free time. If I wasn’t doing odd jobs or hanging out with friends I didn’t have in my old life, I would make music. Sometimes, I’d play for hours.

I remembered once being late for work due to a jazz gig going on longer than usual and hated the sheer dread I felt while my bosses lectured me about not being ‘distracted by silly things’. I couldn’t stop apologizing.

That wasn’t the case, not anymore. The collapse of civilization and changed priorities meant never having to say you’re sorry. Things that people thought were important before didn’t matter at all in our brave new world. True, I missed the Internet and some easy commodities of the old world, consistent electricity being an example, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. I didn’t miss being overweight though, like I had been during my office years.

Finally, I made it to my apartment building. It still served it purpose despite exterior decay and growing kudzu. The trumpet and bag of goodies felt heavy in my paws, yet I skipped happily up to the top floor with each step, entering my sparse dwelling. Well, sparse in the sense that it didn’t have a TV, desktop computer, or anything that could be used anymore. In fact, the most technologically advanced item I didn’t trade for food in the early years was a radio. It let me listen to the official St. Louis channel, whether it be music or citywide warnings regarding attempted raids or a projected incoming storm.

Locking my door multiple times, I relaxed in my recliner that looked out the window, noting frost on the glass. Winter was coming soon. I had more than enough time to prepare, and what I gathered that day would be added to the inventory I kept hidden in my bedroom closet. Not only would the precious metals in the bag be useful to trade at the local market for a new coat, but the food donated by fans would taste incredible. I very much looked forward to trying a small loaf of bread donated to me by a passing otter earlier in the day.

“Can’t wait for tomorrow,” I said happily aloud. “I wonder what else I’ll play next. Mozart? A pop song? Maybe an Eighties rock ballad?”

Whatever I played, there was no doubt people were going to love it. Just as much as I loved playing for them.