Rahul Mishra’s place looked more like an old junk shop than a cozy home. Nothing unusual when four different cultures were crammed into less than fifty square meters of living space. What was unusual, though, was that none of the roommates were currently here to escape the daily grind of working under the table, stealing, or slaving away for some corporation. Only the tightly shut windows, closed since the start of the day, kept in the proof of human activity, preserving the foul smells of cheap perfume, feces, urine and rotting food in the stagnant air. The stench of sweat mixed with cold cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of Indian spices like saffron and turmeric.

Between empty picture frames, binders filled with clippings of cartoons, oriental cookbooks, four weight plates and scattered tea lights, moving boxes took up most of the space on the dusty carpeted floor.

Are they trying to cram in another roommate, or what are all these boxes for?

Isaac stepped over one of these old moving boxes, held together with layers of tape, and disappeared into his tiny cubicle, which in better days might’ve been considered a walk-in closet at best. The damp, cold air from outside seeped through the thin walls and poorly insulated window, and so mold had become an unofficial roommate in his five-square-meter hovel.

"Home is where your heart is," Isaac sighed, sticking a finger between two plastic blinds to peek out at the street. It was pouring outside. In doorways, under ledges, and in makeshift shelters of newspaper and cardboard, the stranded huddled together on the street, seeking refuge from the incoming storm. The president had long closed his eyes to the suffering of the people, wishing it away, and as a result, things in America were worse than in other industrial nations. The world was in chaos, but especially here in the U.S.

New York's Mayor, Fenix Grant, had once been the charismatic figure of hope, but even he had failed to keep his promises, instead handing over the reins of power to Thandros Corp. He was a politician who loved to hand things off—responsibility, blame, and soon, even his life. He was dying of a severe lung disease.

No one could fix the poverty anymore, Isaac thought, as his eyes swept over the misery outside. There were simply too many lost souls who had come here in hopes of a better life. In the three abandoned boroughs of the city (the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island), anarchy ruled. The police couldn’t handle the sheer number of Stranded, so the government had begun to tolerate the rise of parallel societies with their own legal systems, gradually giving up the places and spaces they claimed for themselves. The rich, the ruthless, the winners of society, the people with enough luck or determination to claw their way to the top of the food chain, all gathered in Upper Manhattan. There, life was still somewhat bearable, somewhat orderly, or whatever you wanted to call it. But there was only one true haven left: Central Park, behind the Paradise Walls.

Some of the Stranded outside Isaac’s window stared blankly at a single point in the bleak surroundings, consumed by the course of their fate. Others, the hopeful ones, cried and wailed about their existence, dreaming of a better future. Then there were those born into their suffering, who seemed content with the one thing no one could take from them: each other. It was the children of the Stranded, playing hide-and-seek behind garbage bins on that cold December evening, chasing dirty pigeons in the street, and laughing together about who knows what. They chatted with those who didn’t want to be disturbed and sang songs to the crowd, longing for peace and quiet.

Isaac swallowed hard. He wished he could take them all into his tiny room. He wished he could free the entire world from poverty and injustice.

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An unwelcome déjà vu washed over him, a memory of the days back in his homeland. Things hadn’t been any better in Congo. In fact, it had been even more brutal. But the people here seemed so… hopeless, abandoned, left behind. Isaac stepped away from the small window, sat down at his little side table, stretched his arm toward the old desk, pulled open the top drawer and took out the photo of his wife. The only thing he had left of Tabitha after all these years. Without the photo, only the pain would remain, a deep wound that still gaped inside him.

"I’ll find you," he whispered to the picture, tracing the contours of her face with his finger. "It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea," he softly recited an old poem, their poem, "that a maiden there lived whom you may know, by the name of Annabel Lee." For a while, he let his words fade into the silence. "Do you remember, Tabitha?" he asked the photograph, tears streaming down his face. "That old book of poems by that writer named Poe, the one we found in the trash. The one we used to learn English. We read poems to each other on those cold winter nights. My Annabel Lee. I will find you."

Isaac gazed at her smile, frozen in time. So still. Tabitha. Her name meant gazelle in English. Isaac closed his eyes. Ta. Bi. Tha. He savored the sound of her name like a piece of chocolate melting on his tongue. The gazelle. The world was too cruel a place for such a gentle soul. But just like a beautiful peony survives the coldest, darkest winter, Isaac hoped with all his heart that Tabitha had found a hidden corner somewhere out there, a place where a little light still shone. Somewhere she could hold on until he found her.

"Got you, you pervert! Freakin’ peeping Tom!"

The photo of Tabitha spun through the air as Isaac jumped up, the chair tipping back. But the room was so cramped that the chair didn’t fall, it just hit the thin plaster wall.

"I saw your eyes peeking through the blinds, ha! You getting off on the misery outside again, huh?" Rahul Mishra held the doorknob tightly, standing in the doorway with his legs wide apart, laughing.

Isaac’s heart raced.

"Shit," he cleared his throat, "next time you can knock, you dickhead!"

"There won’t be a next time," Rahul said.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Can you pay me 25 more dollars a month in rent?"

Isaac stared at his roommate, stunned. Twenty-five? He’d just lost his job and was about to ask Rahul if he could skip rent this month and pay it back in installments.

"Damn, no!" Isaac shot back, putting on his usual tough-guy mask. "I’m so broke, I can’t even afford a pencil to write down 25! And why the hell should I pay so much more for this dump?"

"Because someone else can," Rahul said, a sardonic grin spreading across his face. Rahul had one thing in common with the biblical Daniel: both believed in the end of the world. But instead of following the good book’s teachings, Rahul chose greed. He hoarded money like a dragon guards its treasure. Rahul, the sneaky snake, who would sell out his friends for a few extra bucks.

"I’ve already told Semir he can start moving his stuff in."

"Semir?"

"Yeah, the guy with the three moving boxes. You’ve probably noticed them."

"Oh right, and where’s he gonna live? On the towel rack in the bathroom?"

"No, in your room, obviously. Whoever pays more stays, whoever pays less is out. It’s nice to know not everything in life has to be complicated, right?" Rahul nodded toward the exit, his grin never fading.

"Whoa, hold on, Rahul!" Isaac yelled, not ready to end up homeless and jobless again, like when he first arrived from Congo. With Tabitha.

"You wouldn’t kick out an old friend for a few extra bucks, would you?"

"An old friend? FRIENDSHIP?!" Rahul burst out laughing. To Isaac’s horror, he seemed genuinely amused.

"Holy crap," Rahul said, "are you blind, Isaac? This whole world’s going to hell. And we’re all going down with it. It’s all about survival now. Forget friendship, man! The only thing that matters anymore are alliances. And alliances work because both sides benefit. That’s what our flatshare was. Those good times, hanging out, drinking beers, we both got something out of that, right? Well, enjoy the memories. Take them with you and keep your heart warm with them. Alvida, dost!"

Rahul stepped aside to let Isaac pass. As Isaac walked by, Rahul added, with a hint of fake sympathy for his former roommate, "If you want, I can call the cops and tell them you’re one of those damn squatters. Or maybe a pervert. Jail’s just as hopeless as out here, but at least you’ll get a hot meal every day."