The Dystopian States of AMERICA: A Charity Anthology Benefiting the ACLU Foundation

By Matt Bechtel

THIS IS NOT OUR FUTURE.
Welcome to The Dystopian States of America: a Charity Anthology Benefiting the ACLU Foundation.
This anthology features dystopian views of the future, for America and/or the entire world, should the current regime remain in power. And we use the word “regime” very pointedly, because while the executive branch of our government certainly made for a ripe target, our authors were free to draw inspiration from the legislative branch, the judicial branch, local governments, or outside influencers (i.e lobbies, corporations, donors, propagandists, etc.) as well. Many of us have publicly stated that the reality we’re currently living within is scarier and more surreal than anything any of us have ever dreamt up, so this anthology provided the chance to take that ball and run with it.
All proceeds from The Dystopian States of America will be donated to the American Civil Liberties Union Foundation. The ACLU Foundation is a 501(c) (3) nonprofit corporation, donations to which fund the ACLU’s litigation and public education efforts. As such, all contributing authors have donated their work to this anthology without payment.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:
• An Introduction by Christopher Golden
• Passage of Life: Stage 1 — Underground by Abby Bechtel
• No One Who Runs is Innocent by Bracken MacLeod
• Artificial Unintelligence by Linda D. Addison
• Fake News by Tony Tremblay
• Frontrunners by John M. McIlveen
• Carving Out the Other by William D. Carl
• The New Corbridge Free State by Dana Cameron
• What You Need by Hillary Monahan
• Abbatoir Blues by James A. Moore
• Pigs by GD Dearborn
• Divided We Fell by Hildy Silverman
• Before I Formed You In The Womb I Knew You by Michael Rowe
• For Want of Blue Eyes by Stephen Lomer
• Antibodies by Justine Graykin
• Blue & Red by Wrath James White
• The Rules Are Different Here by Nadia Bulkin
• Abandonment Option by Lucy A. Snyder
• Close Your Eyes in Peace Tonight by Craig Wolf
• Passage of Life: Stage 2 — Exiting by Abby Bechtel
• Deep, Dark by Jonathan Maberry
• the revolution will be in color by doungjai gam
• Heart of ICE by Jeff Deck
• African Twilight by Michelle Renee Lane
• Xenophobia by Billy Martin
• How All This Ends by Brad J. Boucher
• The Twenty-Second by C.M. Franklyn
• On a Dusty Trail by Cat Scully
• Six Plus Four by Matt Bechtel
• Scarves by Elizabeth Massie
• The Sick House by Josh Waterman
• Enemy of the People by Dan Foley
• Abortion Diary by KL Pereira
• Drive by Tim Lebbon
• The Night Listener by Chet Williamson
• We All Live Under the Sun by Errick A. Nunnally
• Revolt by Sheri Sebastian-Gabriel
•Passage of Life: Stage 3 — Molting by Abby Bechtel

Thank you for your interest in, and support of, this anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haverhill House Publishing LLC
• Release date: Feb 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463017562

Matt Bechtel

Matt Bechtel is a writer and a funny guy. He is Necon Ebooks production manager and runs the monthly Flash Fiction Contest.

Book preview

An Introduction by Christopher Golden

We live in troubled times, my friends. You don’t need me to tell you that—you’re all living and breathing it every single day. Once upon a time, we could have polite disagreements about political and social issues. In that same era, which seems so far in the past now, government functioned within certain parameters, followed certain protocols and niceties. This isn’t to say that government was not just as corrupt, that the system was not just as inherently rigged to prefer certain people over others. But times have changed, and not—overall—for the better.

In that earlier era, it was easier to ignore your racist uncle at the dinner table. Societal norms pressured LGBTQ+ people to conform and hide, just as they pressured people of color not to complain so loudly that they might make white people uncomfortable, particularly white allies.

All that shit is out the window, now.

You see, once upon a time, societal norms also pressured racists and misogynists and anti-Semites and homophobes and transphobes to keep their fucking mouths shut. You’ll notice I’ve spun off into ProfanityLand here, as I often do, and that’s no mistake. My social media is often filled with profanity, because, honestly, I don’t know how to face today’s world without unleashing the part of me that needs to shout obscenity into the void. The world is obscene, and it deserves my profanity, and sometimes saying fuck gets you more attention.

I should note that, contrary to appearances, I am usually an optimist. I love this world, and I love people. I embrace those who aren’t afflicted by some of the psychoses that I noted in the opening of the previous paragraph. I love nature, animals, the laughter of children. Without any hesitation, I admit to having a soft heart … most of the time.

Conversely, I have a not-so-secret temper. There are buttons in my soul that one can push if one wants to reveal that temper. As I write this, it’s 2019, and all it takes to push one of those buttons is a MAGA hat or a Trump sign. Or a fucking moron extolling the virtues of a no-deal Brexit. Every single day, all around us, people are proudly identifying themselves as being full of hatred and fear and disdain. The American right has spent fifty years undermining education, gaslighting the working class, disenfranchising and jailing people of color, and worse, and now we are seeing the result of all of that. Donald Trump is ignorant, uneducated, intellectually flatlined, mentally ill, possessed of perhaps unprecedented hubris and self-interest, and totally devoid of any feelings of obligation toward his fellow human beings or fellow Americans. To ring an old bell, the man has no better angels.

As a result of all of this, and the result of indoctrinated racism and painfully ironic, orchestrated class warfare, all of the basest impulses of American voters were dredged up from the rotting swamp of their hearts and put on display during the 2016 election, and every day since. Far too many people who call themselves Christian support this man who has zero interest in or adherence to the values traditionally taught by Christianity. No one who truly believes in the fundamental tenets of Christianity could support the vile cruelty of this man, this man who has caused so much suffering in just over two years. (For the record, I was raised Catholic and spent twelve years in Catholic school, but am agnostic. Also for the record, the atheists in my life are by and large far better Christians than most people I see who claim the label.)

But I digress.

You didn’t come here for this screed, or maybe you did.

Here’s my point. There’s a degree to which I’m grateful to Donald Trump. His popularity has somehow persuaded so many people that they can unleash their own vile cruelties and prejudices in a way far more public than ever before. As much fury and frustration and anxiety as this causes, it also means they are self-identifying. People call out for civility, for dialogue, for attempts to understand, as if those who want love and equality are somehow no more rational than those who believe in hatred, inequality, tearing children from their parents’ arms and putting them in cages, and … well, where do you go from there?

So I’m grateful to Trump, because I can look around at all of those people in my family, in my social environment, in my professional community, and say I see you. Their shame may be long in coming, but I truly believe that it will come.

We speak out because we must, and we’re not alone. Thankfully, there are organizations out there doing the social and political and legal work to hold the villains accountable. Chief among those is the ACLU, which does brilliant work every day to fight for the rights of individual Americans. That’s the reason for this anthology—to support the ACLU Foundation while we’re screaming into the void.

Now, here’s the thing ….

I’m a writer. I rely on readers to pick up my books, to pay good money for them, to read them and say nice things to others about them. I’m sure my agent and my editors and publishers would prefer that I not have said ANY of what I’ve written above, or any of the thousands of things I’ve said on social media over the past few years. They’d probably like me to have not tweeted so many things AT Donald Trump, telling him that his parents never loved him and nobody else ever will, and other things of that nature. Other writers—friends of mine, some of whom are quite a bit more successful—have warned me that I risk alienating readers by being outspoken and that I should probably dial back my political ire.

To which I have always said, Fuck that.

It’s not political ire. It’s humanity. In the face of the inhumanity on display every day, in the face of the overwhelming rise of hate crimes, the dismantling of our democracy, the social injustices that are finally being laid bare only to be ignored or encouraged, tiny children caged and raped by agents of the federal government, the systemic and blatant corruption, the purposeful miseducation of America … rage and awareness are not political, they are merely human and humane.

I have a voice. It’s my responsibility to use it. If using it costs me readers, costs me publishing deals, costs me everything, how can I stay silent? How can anyone?

The anthology that follows is full of stories inspired by the troubled times we live in, by inequality and cruelty, but also by hope and strength and the cry for justice. In writing these stories, the authors herein have all joined me in saying fuck that to those who warn them not to speak up, not to draw attention to themselves, to keep their heads down, not rock the boat, etc. etc. etc. As Edmund Burke once famously said, The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Perhaps, in the scheme of things, fuck that does not rise to Burke’s eloquence, but I think it gets the point across rather nicely.

Perhaps we don’t have the tools or the power to enact change on a grand scale, but as authors, we have stories to tell. In doing so, perhaps we can peel back the curtain to reveal bitter truths, burning furies, and heartfelt hopes. We can raise our voices, pen our stories, and shout them to the world.

It’s something.

It truly is.

It’s a spark in search of a fuse.

Read on. Enjoy. And get angry with me.

Christopher Golden

Bradford, MA

April 8 th , 2019

Passage of Life: Stage 1 — Underground by Abby Bechtel



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The cottonwood wept seeds a bit before their season. The vibrations did that: sent a message to your roots that you responded to by accelerating, by turning things over without much cause. Cherry pickers and the swarms of men they hoisted gave the grove a new feel of shaking. Shrill and then grinding noises folded into the state-land soil like the linen stationery of an executive order.

Making it snow in summer was the cottonwood’s private joke. With a few branches, you could dust every shorter tree until rain came to wad the seed-wisps, which clung to your bark as stubbornly as the sticky feet of cicada skins. The mess was worth it just to spoof the conifers with what you could do. The men, of course, sneezed, complained, and wiped their eyes on splintered knuckles.

Humans made the cottonwood laugh. They seemed eager since discovering the energy underneath. But we’ve grown on top of it, kept it down where it belongs for ages, thought the cottonwood. Perhaps once the humans verified the oil stayed safely unfractured, they would withdraw. For now, they did a niceness; each day, they left a little more space, more sun.

A man was near, touching the tree. From a machine platform, he started the screech. The cottonwood felt a quiver and minimal pain. There was lightness, and then the sting of wind on a fresh cut. A branch had fallen. The cottonwood was being pruned.

Waiting for the man to finish, the tree began to hate the chainsaw cry. It went on too long, and he was taking too much. These branches hurt. As the external ones fell, the gardener threaded a canvas belt around the cottonwood’s top-third trunk. Bracing his feet, he walked the belt higher to reach the proudest top limbs. The cottonwood shrieked, but the man did not hear. When he took the branches at the trunk, the tree went into shock, trembling so hard from growth rings out that it should have cast off the creature of short life span .

Dusk swirled. Coolness wound about the tree’s amputated top. Not ungently, the man descended to his cherry picker and unbound his belt. The tree was still alive. It’s only the branches, thought the cottonwood through tremors. I still have roots. They gripped, trying to find water to begin healing, to absorb what had been done. The man had taken what he needed, and it could be all right. A tree could live this way, could go on as less, trusting it got no worse. When a breeze hit, the cottonwood bore it without a canopy to sway—with no seeds to shed.

No One Who Runs Is Innocent by Bracken MacLeod



NoOneWhoRunsIsInnocent.jpg

[The artist’s] only justification… is to speak up, insofar as we can, for those who cannot do so.

— Albert Camus

Every wall is a door.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

The television in the other room was so loud, Pepper couldn’t concentrate on what he was drawing. His grandmother’s hearing aids were dying even though she’d just charged them. They were three years old, and they wouldn’t hold a charge for longer than a couple of hours anymore, but she was trying to draw out every last drop of life in them. Pepper understood. Replacements were expensive, and she probably didn’t have enough in her account to get new ones until the next LibertyCare qualifying period. Still, instead of sitting closer, or even better, not watching TV at all, she cranked the volume. When it was one of her morning talk programs, it was alright, he guessed. But then, commercials were always louder; they paid to be a higher volume so you couldn’t ignore them as easily. Except this wasn’t an ad. The President was on TV again, and his broadcasts were even louder than the commercials. Louder than everything. They had to be. That was the law.

The President was talking about borders and terror and America and all the things that presidents talked about, but he wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t repeated a thousand times before. It was the beginning of the work week and that meant it was time for the Monday Address to motivate the nation. He came on twice a week, steady as a heartbeat. And Grandma never turned it off, though no one else in the house could figure out why.

Pepper tried to tune it out but couldn’t. He closed his sketchbook, stuffed it in his backpack, and grabbing the last of his toast, ducked into the living room where Grandma Claudie sat. He kissed her on the cheek and said Love you, M é m é , into the hearing aid like a mic. She nodded and smiled, though he was sure she didn’t hear. The dim red light on the side told him the damn thing was already dead. That’s why she had the set cranked so high.

He slipped out the front door, unexpectedly finding his parents on the porch. M é m é had woken them early; typically, they wouldn’t be up for another hour, but there they were. His dad was leaning against the railing, looking at his phone. Mom sat in the ratty wicker chair across from him holding a cup of coffee like its warmth was a precious, fragile thing she needed to protect. Her hands were thin and bony like the rest of her and warmth was precious. Even a little chill got deep into her and made her bones ache. Pepper knew her knuckles especially hurt in the cold. Like Dad’s knees. It was cool yet this morning, too early for the sun to have risen up over the trees and warm them. But it was better out here in the shade than inside with the television.

Headed out already? Isn’t it early, mon vilain?

Pepper blushed. He hated when she called him that. Yes, Maman. I mean. It’s not that early.

His father looked up from his phone. I thought school was canceled this week because of … what happened on the North Side.

His mother’s mouth tightened at the mention of it, and her lips went pale. She looked down into her coffee as if it contained answers why what happened the week before had. There were no answers. Not in the coffee or in the manifesto posted online before the government took it down. There weren’t any answers in the faces of the people responsible or in the official reports on the news. Still, everyone looked for them where they could, because at least the search for answers provided order of some kind. Even if there was no coherent reason why, there was reason in asking why.

Pepper shrugged. His backpack clanked softly, and he forced a little cough trying to conceal the sound. His father’ s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to say something, but Pepper ’s mom put her hand on her husband’s arm and he let the thought die in the back of his throat where he kept all the things he wanted to say but didn’t.

Marielle turned to her son and said, "Where are you headed this early?"

I’m meeting Jack at the library. We’re gonna work on the comic we’ve been talking about. The monster one.

His father sighed. He knew better. Still, he held it in. He took a drink of coffee, and Pepper’s mom said, That your Thermos I hear in your bag? You have lunch in there too or do you need me to fix you something?

The President’s voice carried through the closed windows, and Pepper told her he had something to eat even though he didn’t because he didn’t want her to have to go back inside. Not until it was over. The President said something about last week, and Pepper coughed again, trying to avoid hearing him utter it, but the word emerged like a black blemish in the sky, hovering over them, at once weightless and heavier than any pile of debris from the collapsed side of a building where people were lucky enough to die right away instead of being lost in the rubble for days.

He said it.

Townsend.

Their town. The latest on the list.

I’m good, Maman. Got everything I need.

I’ll bet you do, his father said. What else is in that backpack?

Just art stuff, Papa. For the comic. See? He turned so his father could see through the clear pack, knowing that his hoodie obscured everything except his sketchbook.

Rayan! Marielle set her cup on the table between them and stood. She rarely said her husband’s full first name, and never outside of the house, though the porch was barely out of the house. In public, he was Ray, just like she was Mari. No one looked twice at Ray and Mari. They passed, as did Pepper, as long as they played it right. She smoothed down her son ’s thick, unruly hair, placing a warm palm against his cheek. Her fingers were still cold. He leaned into her hand and she kissed him on the forehead. "The library , mon vilain. Then home. Nowhere else, you hear me?"

"Where else would I go?’

" Nowhere else, love. Stick to the main streets. You promise." It wasn’ t a question.

Library and home. Main streets. Got it.

Promise.

"I do ." Pepper glanced past his mother at his father. The man was looking at him with a mixture of understanding and concern. He knew Pepper had just lied to his mother. The boy could see it in his old man’s eyes. But he kept Pepper’s secrets, even if he didn’t know them exactly. He knew his son, and he remembered being a boy his age.

Be careful, Rayan said. "And home before curfew. Way before."

I will, Papa. Nothing’s going to happen.

His father laughed. It was humorless. Sad.

Pepper ’s mother kissed him on the forehead again and waved him off the porch. Go now. Before I change my mind.

He bounded down the steps onto the sidewalk and down the block in the direction of the library. I love you, Maman. Papa, he called over his shoulder. His parents watched him go, saying nothing to each other but thinking the same thing. Be safe.

Behind them, the President finished his address. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.

* * * * *

Pepper ran past the library, the soft clinking in his backpack brash to his ears, like a rhythm in time with his pounding footfalls. Thump thump tink thump thump tink thump thump tink . Bass and hi-hat. A beat for running. He knew he shouldn’t rush, but couldn’t help it. No one who runs is innocent. Not in adulthood, anyway. Or even adolescence. Unless they’re exercising, grown up people don’t run for anything but escape, self-preservation, or evasion. And often those categories overlapped. He wasn’t dressed for jogging, but Pepper counted on his small stature and smooth face to give him the camouflage of nonage. Someone for whom running was still play. Though, these days, not even little kids ran much. Their parents held them close, fists wrapped too tight around little hands and wrists. Still, he didn’t want to get caught out on the street with what he had in his bag. So he propelled himself on at speed.

Of course, running made him look suspicious, but even if he could bring himself to walk, the backpack was shady enough on its own. While it was his school-issued clear shoulder bag, no one could see through to what the black hoodie he’d stuffed inside concealed—what he hadn’t thought to muffle as well as cover. He’d hoped the sweatshirt would’ve deadened that sound, but hadn’t thought to slip his cargo in the hoodie’s sleeves or stuff something in between them so they wouldn’t make a racket when he moved. Carelessly, he’d just shoved it all in, pulled the hoodie around so no one could see, and then jammed his pens and sketchbook in next to it all .

He thought of what he’d been drawing, a portrait of his grandmother. He’d illuminated her name, Claudie Lalibert é , in embellished script in an arc over her head as if the image were advertising a concert she was giving, though she hadn’t sung in years. He’d shown it to her, and she smiled that smile of hers. The one that made her look like the arty girl she’d once been instead of the old woman she was now. She’d put her hand on his and pushed the book in toward his heart. Not rejecting it, but having seen enough. They all lived with memories that were more beautiful than their present lives. All but Pepper. He’d been born to this.

Behind the library, he took a hard left and ran into the alley. It wasn’t like an alley in a big city, a knife-wide valley between towering edifices of glass and steel, but still, the town buildings blocked the morning sun and cast him into the shadows he craved. He knew there were still cameras in alleys, but they didn’t track. Not like the ones in the street. These were fixed, mostly pointed at recessed doorways.

He ran past stinking Dumpsters and steel bulkhead doors that opened to subterranean storerooms. Green scaffolding on one side forced him to the other, and he leaped over a pile of discarded boxes with black painted words on the side declaring them GOVERNMENT SURPLUS and NOT FOR SALE, though everything in them eventually found its way to a market of one color or another. Whether the trade was money or something else, nothing was free, not even disaster relief.

Then, skidding to a stop at the far end of the alley, he saw it, rising up on the opposite side of the road ahead of him.

The wall.

It stood, monolithic and impassible, topped with coiling concertina wire. It was solid without a break for as far as he could see. Pepper knew where the main gate was, with its guards and spotlights and cameras. Far from where he stood. He looked both ways and quickly crossed the street. On the other side, he climbed the berm and stood on the flat shelf of earth at the base of the blank wall. Looking over his shoulder, he searched the buildings behind him for a face in the windows. One perhaps with a phone pressed to its ear and lips mouthing the words, I see him. The East Sector. Come quickly.

There was no one watching.

Pepper swung his backpack off his shoulders and unzipped it. The pull sliding down the teeth sounded like a tear in the very air around him. As if he could drag it all the way down from his head to the dirt and step through to the other side of the wall without opposition. Free to come and go as he pleased without anyone questioning why his father was named Rayan, or where he might be from with a last name like Nasri.

I was born here. I’m from the New England Territory. I’ m American.

Yes, but where are you from ? How did you get here?

It’s French. My parents are French.

Never Algerian. French got him looks that amounted to being beheld like a thing only slightly out of the ordinary. A fancy object, not an alien one. White. Algerian would make them those immigrants, even though he was naturel Am éricain né . They’d say those words. Anchor baby. Chain migration. Emergency Acts. And, Let me see your papers.

He pulled his sweatshirt out of the bag and shrugged into it. He slipped his hands into a pair of gloves, then tied a bandana over his nose and mouth before pulling up his hood. While running was bad enough, now he truly looked suspect.

The rest of his cargo now visible through the clear pack, he dumped the contents onto the ground, picked up the first can, and broke off the lid. The plunger cap was pristine. He held it up, pressed down with his forefinger, and a jet of black sprayed out, sputtering and hissing. A little paint dripped down into the valve cup, but most was propelled true. He threw a long line up on the wall high over his head, followed it with another at an angle, and then down again to the dirt. He filled a space inside with a swoop and a straight line, then dropped the can and grabbed the next. Red. A circle and then another line, a glow resplendent as sunrise behind a mountain. Next. Blue. Cool water and clean. Another. Green. Like the grass that should’ve grown on the berm on which he stood — but they killed that with chemicals because this wasn’t a park or a greenbelt. They didn’t want people walking here. No one was supposed to get close to the wall.

Color after color he projected onto the barrier until it all began to take shape, resemble the image in his mind, his heart. The one he’d drawn in his sketchbook under the covers lit by his cellphone. He ducked and leaned, almost dancing with the hiss and stop of the spray paint. The smell of it blew back in his face, but it was the act of creation that made him feel lightheaded. His small human rebellion in the kingdom of deadly gods with rifles and badges and laws. Mon vilain. My villain. No villain! He was the creator of the world on the other side of this amalgam of streaks and colors, having opened the door for all to see. What could be. A better place, if only imagined, still possible.

The faint hum descending behind him was almost inaudible—would’ve been if it weren’t for the pause he took to admire his work—but Pepper caught it, sent to him on the breeze. Small propellers and a muffled motor. He spun and sprayed paint in the direction of the sound. The drone shifted and the blast of the gun barrel at the end of its extended arm rang out in the quiet morning along with Pepper’s scream of fear. The bullet streaked over his shoulder, so close to his cheek he could feel the heat of it, and slammed into the wall, sending a small hail of concrete shards into his back. But the boy’s aim was true and the paint obscured the thing’s camera. It pitched to one side before righting itself, the barrel twisting toward where he had been a second ago, but not aiming true. A voice erupted from the speaker on the side.

Don ’t move! You’re under arrest!

Pepper swung the can at one of the small propellers and the thing veered off wildly to the right. He spun around and threw one more line up on the wall. His piece wasn’t finished, but it had to be enough. He dropped the can, not yet spent, but incriminating along with the others on the berm, snatched up his pack and ran. He sprinted along the length of the wall, away from the gatehouse a half mile behind him and toward the town common with its trees and deeper shadows and cameras obscured by branches green with spring leaves yet to be trimmed.

He couldn’t hear them, but he knew other drones would be responding soon. They were likely already overhead, following, filming, and waiting to descend.

He jumped off the rise into the street, making for another alley. As he ran, he slung the lighter, silent bag back onto his shoulder and pulled the hood down over his forehead as he ducked around more waste, pallets, abandoned pipes, and tarpaulin-covered shapes concealing what he couldn’t begin to guess. He darted around and through and stopped in a recess in the wall, slamming his back against a windowless steel door. In the distance, he heard a siren. Far-off now. Getting closer.

He hazarded a glance up to see if there was a camera pointed at him. If there was, he couldn’t see it. Still, this was no place to lose the bandana or hood.

His heart thundered in his slender ribcage. He breathed in short, rapid gasps. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he knew if he emerged into the street now, blinking blind and breathless, he’d be caught. He looked like he’d been running. And no one who runs is innocent. Not in America.

Pepper closed his eyes and tried to take slower, deeper breaths. He imagined the country Maman and Papa had come to as children, their parents so proud to have landed in the place of their dreams, far from anyone shouting Sale race! or Les é migr é s! In the breath of time before alien registration and relocation and the walls. Pepper tried to project himself into the liminal moment of tolerance and welcoming in a land of plenty—plenty for you and me and everyone who dreamed of things like freedom and equality. He imagined Fourth of July parades with old men throwing taffy to children from paper floats and their fathers following in tiny cars, wearing fezzes like silly Ottoman jesters. The sound of fireworks cracking that made no one flinch or look for shelter, but instead to the sky with awe and delight. He imagined a place that hadn’t existed in his lifetime. A place he only knew from M é mé’s stories and the movies.

The place his painted doorway led.

The hum at the end of the alley ripped him out of the fantasy. Faint and distant, but deadly familiar. Another high-altitude sentry drone. He pressed back into the shallow alcove as far as he could, sucking in a breath, trying to become thinner. His backpack pushed against his shoulder blades and he wanted to shed it, throw it behind a Dumpster and come back for it later. But he couldn’t. It had his RFID chip in the strap. They’d scan it and know everything. His name, age, where he went to school. Where he lived and who his parents were. He shoved harder, crushing it, clenching his teeth, listening for the soft sound of the drone propellers to echo in the alleyway as it came closer.

It faded.

He hazarded a peek out. Clear. As far as he could see.

Pepper stepped out of the doorway and pulled off his bandana. He couldn’t throw it away. They could collect his DNA from it, and he was in the registry. Instead, he pulled the bag off his back and stuffed it, along with his gloves, inside. He walked away from the door, resisting every urge in his body to run. Though he moved smoothly enough, it felt as if he was stumbling along, his limbs thrashing in exaggerated jerks and spasms. His muscles wanted to move with an urgent volition of their own. Self-preservation at war with itself. He breathed deep and walked as deliberately as he could. Just keep it together. Stay calm and don’t run.

At the end of the alley, he swept nervous fingers through his hair, brushing the hood of his sweatshirt back to flop behind his neck before slinging the bag over a shoulder and jamming his hands in his pockets where no one could see how badly they shook. He turned right and walked calmly away from the East Sector. Pepper ambled along the sidewalk trying to look like a kid dawdling on his way to school. Though there was no school today.

A car sped past, lights flashing and siren screaming, and Pepper flinched but didn’t freeze. The driver flew past him, and he kept walking. A couple of men emerged from a caf é and craned their necks to see what the commotion was. What is it? one of them said. Another attack?

I hope they hang ‘em all on the fuckin’ wall so everyone can see. We need to stop coddling — Hey!

Pepper moved a little quicker, hoping to slip past them unnoticed. He’d taken a risk doing what he had in the early morning instead of sneaking out after dark. But the risks were even bigger at night. Using a light to see what he was doing would’ve meant the drones or guards found him before he had a chance to draw more than a single line.

Hey kid, you comin’ from that way? You see what’s happening?

Pepper stumbled as he slowed. His breath caught. He turned and shook his head. Huh uh, he said. The men turned away from him now that he was useless. He was glad to be dismissed and moved on. He wanted to go home, but couldn’t. Not so soon. What would he tell Maman and Papa? That he’d heard sirens and got scared and came home? It was the truth, however incomplete. But he wasn’t away yet, and no matter how confident he felt in his story, he knew if he was followed home … He pushed the thought down.

He turned again at the end of the block, heading for the library where he was supposed to be meeting Jack. He should at least get his pack scanned in, or check out a book or something to make it look like he’d actually done what he’d said he was going to do. The library was nearly halfway to home, and he felt comforted at least that much when he saw it standing at the end of the street. He picked up his pace and trotted toward the building. He pulled the bag off his shoulders to scan it at the doors, and panic hit him as fresh as it had at the sound of a drone descending behind him. His sketchbook. Where was the fucking book?

Pepper yanked the zipper open and snatched his bandana and gloves out, dropping them on the sidewalk. He swept his hand through, feeling for the thing even though he could see there was nothing else in there. It was gone.

He’d upended the bag at the wall, spilling all the spray cans onto the berm. The sketchbook had to have fallen out with them. As soon as real people on the ground reached his painting and searched the spot, they’d find the book with his sketch of the painting he’d done on the wall and the portrait of his grandmother with her full name illuminated above. They’d know her. She was an immigrant. They’d know where she was registered to live and go to ask her how it was that a book with her picture in it came to be at the bottom of a pile of spray paint cans at the base of the sector wall, and that would be the last time he saw home, Maman, Papa, or M é m é . Because they’d know it was him. He’d have to tell them he did it, because the alternative was unthinkable.

He spun around and sprinted back the way he’d come, unconcerned with how guilty it made him look. He angled sharply into the alley and pushed himself as hard as he could, dodging the same obstacles as before, each one newly threatening to trip him, slow him, stop him before he could get back to the book. He was sweating and panting and his chest hurt at the effort mixed with terror.

At the end of the passageway, he skidded to a stop, clutching at the brick of the building beside him, and peered out across the street at the wall. Unlike before, it was no longer blank. The sun was higher and the day was brighter and his painting erupted from the grey fa ç ade with color. An open door, leading through to a verdant world with blue skies overhead and reflecting water at the bottom of a rolling hill. And in the center of it all, a tall tree topped with all the colors of life reflecting through its leaves. What up close seemed abstract, at a distance appeared so real Pepper felt like he could run through and escape. Just the way he’d hoped it’d look to everyone who came to work in these buildings or even just drove by. People would look out a window and see, if only for a single moment of a single day before it was power-washed and painted over, the doorway to a better place. And the passage, once opened to their minds, never to be closed again when they looked and saw the space where it had once been. All the ambition and hope of a boy in color and movement, indelible in memory. Whether or not they’d ever actually beheld such a place.

And at the bottom of it, a small tan rectangle, sitting at a tilt in the dirt, its true nature too distant to be known. But still he knew, because it was his.

He leaned out from behind the corner and looked for a drone or someone from the Department of Haven Integrity. He saw no one. The blind machine likely called back to base, the others looking for him throughout town—their operators confident he wouldn’t be foolish enough to return here—he crept out of the alley. It took effort to stay upright. He badly wanted to hunch over and make himself small, like a mouse in the kitchen trying to avoid the housecat. Instead, he strode across the street and hustled up the berm to where his abandoned spray cans lay. He bent, picked up his sketchbook, and stuffed it hurriedly inside his sweatshirt. The book was stiff and wouldn’t bend against the curve of his body. Its corners jutted out under his hoodie. Pepper pressed his arm tighter against it and turned to go.

The man that stood there was looking up at his painting, not at him. He hadn’t seemed to notice Pepper at all until he said, It’s nice. Pepper didn’t know what to say. Responding at that moment seemed as alien as … a future. You like it? the man asked.

I… uh, I…

The man nodded. He opened his coat, revealing a DHI badge clipped to his belt and a handgun in a black leather holster. He dug a cellphone out of his pants pocket and looked at the screen. He swiped the face of it with his finger and raised it up. Pepper flinched as if it was a gun barrel. You mind? The man said. Step aside. He pointed at a spot in the street a couple of feet from where he stood. Pepper complied, feeling held as fast as if there were hands on him.

The man took a picture of the imaginary door. He looked at what he’d snapped for a second before replacing the phone in his pocket. He didn’t let his coat fall closed again, but stood with a hand resting on the grip of his gun. This your work? he asked.

Pepper stood frozen, wanting to run as badly as he wanted to not be shot in the back. He looked at the asphalt.

"It’s good. But, why a door? I mean, why a door leading into the Migrant Development? The door should be on the other side. Have you seen it in there?"

Pepper shook his head. Have you seen it out here?

The man smiled with half his mouth. He nodded. A tinge of humorless laughter rattled the man’s speech like a shudder. Yeah. All the same, better to be on this side of things, don’t you agree?

Pepper reluctantly nodded.

Thought so. The man checked his watch and looked to his right, up toward the corner where he was parked. Why didn’t you run?

I did.

Not far enough. He looked at his watch again, as if he hadn’t reckoned the time correctly the first time.