Everyone wants to own the end of the world. That's what my father said, standing by the windows of his New York office, where he manages his personal fortune, family investments, and emerging markets. We were sharing a rare, contemplative moment, made all the more poignant by his vintage sunglasses, which seemed to draw the night in. I took in the room's diverse, abstract art and began to understand that the silence that followed his words didn't belong to either of us. I thought of his second wife, the archaeologist, whose consciousness and weary body would, according to a predetermined schedule, begin to drift into the void.