For most, the melting began before they left home. Still, some were en route, mid-commute, when, losing their grip, fingernails slipped and whole hands oozed away. Several dissolved straight into the crosswalks, like that escalator game where the person mimes going down behind the sofa—only, in this case, the person never pops back up and all that’s left is a slick, slippery mess. A few enterprising, unmelted hypothesized how the oily remnants could be reconstituted to solve the energy crisis. But the rest were left to fret that their trickling tears signalled the start of their own impending melts.