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He dug through the rocky soil on which he knelt, scraping away with hands that were callused despite the thick and worn canvas gloves that protected them. The wet dirt soaked the gloves, chilling his hands.

"See," he thought to himself, "never thought you'd love a simple pair of gloves, eh? Useless for keeping out the cold, but these hands would be bloodied up without 'em, no doubt." He grinned, and pushed away some more dirt to reveal the prize he sought: a humble potato, grown in the land he had claimed and planted by his own hands. The gloves, the dirt, the potato (and the several dozen like it in the field), and his own rough, cold hands... he loved all these things, and his grin grew wider at the thought of all the love there was in his life now. Since the incident twelve years ago, he'd learned to love the hard, gritty, dirty things that kept him alive. Other people were so morbid and unhappy about what had been lost those twelve years ago, but really, he thought, hadn't there been enough time to get over it? No matter; he loved those people who complained anyway, because they helped keep him alive as well, and he them. Still, he wished they could face up to reality a little better.

"After all," he said aloud to no one in particular, "you can't really be miserable when your life's as good as it could possibly be." That's how it was: since the incident, a life sustained by digging up potatoes and sleeping in a crude stone hut was about as good a life as one could get. And happiness was all about living the good life.

He had laughed those twelve years ago, when everything had collapsed and the United States of America was essentially bought by its creditors. He still laughed sometimes, to himself, but he knew it disturbed the others so he tried to only do it when no one else was around. However, just last week one of the others had seen him leaning against the wall of his hut--the first one he'd helped build--giggling uncontrollably.

"Damn you, stop laughing!" She barked at him with the tone of one who is sick of hearing a joke she doesn't get, "What is wrong with you? Do you like the state the world is in? Because if you do, you're sick!"

He stifled his laughter and wiped his eyes clear. "I know you don't think it's funny but try to understand... I saw it coming all along, and the look of shock on everyone's faces was precious. I'm sorry you can't appreciate it; it's kept me in tears of laughter for twelve years. The old world could never do that for me."

"You and Roger are two of the most twisted people I have ever met. I'll never understand any of you crackpots," and she walked off, shaking her head.

Roger was like him. He had seen it coming, he had laughed when it happened, and he still laughed. The traveling merchants talked about other people who were like that. In fact, many of the travelers themselves cracked a strange smile whenever the incident was mentioned. In the survivor communes to the south, they said, people like that were actually called Laughingmen. The world he lived in needed Laughingmen like himself and Roger. For years, they had been the only ones who could smile. Their mad laughter kept everyone alive, and he loved it.