Six years after the blast, the year he was born, the world was still reeling from the blow, still staggered by the immensity of the aftermath, the millions upon millions dead, hundreds of thousands of them gone in a flash.
He grows up with this reality, with the endless newsreel footage looping back over and over again to the detonation a thousand feet above the city, the light brighter than sunlight, the mushroom cloud, the shockwave. Someone on Madison Avenue makes up a nifty little logo and everyone starts talking about harvesting all that Power For Peace, but he knows it's just a bomb, will never be anything but just another bomb.
In school they try to teach him how to survive, but even as a child he knows this is not a possibility. They show him where the shelters are, praise their brightly painted concrete walls, but he remembers the newsreels, the images of children's silhouettes etched into similar walls forever, grisly X-rays of futility.