The plan was "Project Toaster." Every thermal vent on the ocean floor was opened, and every solar-concentrator satellite was aimed at the North Atlantic. For three days, the horizon glowed a deep, golden brown. The smell was heavenly—a toasted, nutty aroma that filled the lungs of every human on Earth.

Should we delve into the between the "Crust-dwellers" and the mainlanders, or perhaps explore the giant seagulls that evolved to eat the world?

Aris was hailed as a hero, though he never quite lost the guilt. He spent his retirement in a small cottage carved into the side of a sourdough cliff near the Azores, forever haunted by the fact that he’d saved the world, but made it forever gluten-intolerant.

Aris sat in his lab, watching satellite footage of people walking across the ocean. Enterprising teenagers were literally skateboarding to France. But the atmosphere was thickening with CO2, and the world was getting uncomfortably warm, like a giant proofing drawer. "We have to bake it," Aris whispered to his assistant. "The ocean?" she asked, eyes wide.