“One Hour with the World”
by Harry Arabian

 

 

It was 6 p.m.—my hour.

The ceramic mug warmed my hands as I settled into the deep comfort of the couch, the one spot in the house perfectly shaped to my body after years of quiet evenings. Outside, dusk tiptoed across the windowpanes. Inside, the room stilled—just me, the lamp’s soft glow, and the familiar music of PBS NewsHour filling the air.

I was a dedicated watcher. Not just out of habit, but out of principle. I loved the way they presented the world—not with bombast or panic, but with care. It was the closest thing I had to a nightly conversation with reason. Thoughtful anchors. Well-researched reports. A news magazine format that stitched together policy, conflict, culture, and human resilience like a patient quilt-maker. It didn’t try to make the news—it just presented it, plain and urgent and real.

Some nights the stories consoled me. Others left a quiet ache. But always, I felt I’d done my part—simply by listening, by witnessing.

 

Tonight’s stories ran deep: rising tensions overseas, a bitter Senate vote, a segment on an inner-city youth orchestra. And then, the closing. Soft music. A final word. Fade to black.

And me? I stayed right there. The day’s weight and the steady cadence of voices must’ve rocked me into sleep. I didn’t even notice myself drifting.

Then—chaos.

A sudden jolt of music, sharp graphics. The screen burst to life again with flashing banners: BREAKING NEWS. The anchor’s tone had changed—low, grave, urgent.

“This just in—devastating reports out of Alaska. The President and Vice President were aboard a government aircraft en route to a summit that has now disappeared from radar. Search and rescue operations are underway, but sources say there is little hope of survival…”

I sat up, heart thudding. The broadcast continued, now showing images of the Capitol, the White House, stunned citizens gathering by candlelight.

“In accordance with the Presidential Succession Act, the Majority Leader of Congress has been sworn in as acting President.”

My mouth was dry. I reached for the remote, numb, and pressed the volume higher. The voices swirled—statements from cabinet members, footage of world leaders reacting, gasps from reporters.

“Marie!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. “Marie, come quick! You need to see this!”

I heard her footsteps hurrying from the kitchen. She appeared in the doorway, towel in hand, concern painted across her face.

“What happened?”

“The President—he’s gone. Plane crash. Just now—it’s all over the news…”

But she just stared at me, confused.

“I turned off the TV almost half an hour ago,” she said gently. “You were asleep. I didn’t want the noise to wake you.”

I turned toward the screen.

It was dark. Silent. Just a faint reflection of my startled face in the black glass.

Nothing more.

My hands dropped into my lap. The room felt suddenly still again—but my heart was still racing. It had felt so real.

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “I think I’ve been watching a little too much TV.”

Marie came over, sat beside me, and rested her hand on mine. “Maybe tomorrow you try something quieter before bed. There’s still that book you’ve been meaning to finish.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Maybe it’s time I let the world spin without me for a while.”

We sat there in the hush of the evening, no headlines, no anchors. Just the two of us, the warm light of the lamp, and the distant hum of the world continuing—outside, far away—for one hour, without me.