Three hours ago, Rahul Mishra had kicked him out, and Isaac’s belongings still lay scattered in his tiny room. Some of the things had cost a decent amount of money, but they meant nothing to him now. So, he decided to leave with just a backpack full of clothes, a few papers and the photo of Tabitha.

He was back where he’d been seven years ago: a stranded soul in America with no prospects. Except this time, he didn’t even have Tabitha. He walked up 1st Avenue, past a hospital. It might have been the most modern hospital of the 21st century, but it was defenseless against the suffering of the masses. A man, limbs sprawled out, lay motionless in a puddle of rain in front of the hospital grounds. No one paid him any attention. Instead, a massive line of people waited, like they were lining up for a concert headliner: the doctor who could treat them. How cynical that, in the past year, more people had died outside hospitals than had walked out of them cured.

The December rain quickly turned into a storm. Ever since climate change had the world in its grip, New York’s storms had increased in frequency and intensity. Wet gusts whipped against Isaac’s face, soaking through his clothes.

Warm and dry—no matter the weather! That’s what the slogan on the lining of his sports jacket promised, but now, like every corporate promise, it was exposed as a cheap lie.

Isaac stopped on W41st St, gripping the wrought-iron fence of St. Raphael’s Church, which was surrounded by trash and the belongings of the homeless, swept aside by the wind and piling up against the fence. This was the gateway to the kingdom of the Stranded, their playground. A groan came from inside the old Catholic church. Tortured sounds that tortured him in turn. He turned the corner. About 300 meters ahead lay the two tunnels of the Lincoln Tunnel. His last chance at dry shelter.

He walked down the road to the multi-lane highway, where only burnt-out car skeletons remained. It was both lonely and liberating to walk on a road that was off-limits to pedestrians but had now been taken over by them.

Suddenly, he thought of that guy from the solar panel factory. Billy. Billy Something. Billyboy, Number Whatever. Isaac had never seen anyone who looked as strange as that lanky, bald-headed guy. A porcelain-white face with no eyebrows. He had to be suffering from some kind of serious hair loss, Isaac thought, maybe even a pigmentation disorder. His irises were nearly colorless, maybe a pale gray. But there was something about him, something that felt familiar. Something that made Billyboy likable. More than that. There was something about the hairless factory worker that reminded him of... his wife. Was it his kindness? It had to be. After all, Billy had risked his future to save him. That’s what his Tabitha would have done for a stranger.

Would he run into that weirdo here tonight? He must’ve been fired, too.

Digital signs were mounted on steel fixtures five meters high, indicating which lanes were still open for traffic: none.

There was a reason why a red X glowed over every lane, proudly displaying the Lincoln Tunnel as a newly claimed stronghold of the Stranded. They had barricaded the entrances with corrugated metal, wood and wreckage, claiming the tunnel as their own.

Above the four entrances, painted in pitch-black letters as tall as a man, the words read:

GOD'S SALVATION

GOD'S LAND

In front of the second entrance, an old tour bus blocked the way, doubling as a dining area where meager meals were handed out, rock-hard bread, watery soups and scraps scavenged by search teams from the back alleys of restaurants.

Isaac knew from personal experience that the Lincoln Tunnel had become an autonomous state, with its own primitive infrastructure and laws. Government type: holy dictatorship. A whole world run by a single man who should have been in an asylum but was instead a tyrant. Nothing new in this world.

Many of the Stranded were taking advantage of the rain to wash themselves and their ragged clothes. Standing as they were made, men and women alike stood unbothered by the cold 50-degree downpour. Old barrels, with most of their paint peeling off, welcomed the rain, collecting the water in their rusting bellies. The first tunnel was sealed off with steel beams and wooden planks, hiding from sight what the ears couldn’t escape: barking dogs, children screaming, crying, laughing, shouting. Sounds from every corner of human emotion echoed from the tunnel, hitting Isaac’s ears and filling him with a sense of reluctance to take another step forward.

Three figures stood at the entrance, guarding what might have been a gate. A massive steel plate on wheels, with the words PROMISED LAND crudely carved into it with dull knives. Isaac massaged his throat as he approached the men, but the discomfort of his situation lingered like a lump in his throat. The stench of piss hit his nose, reminding him that this would be the nicest smell he'd encounter for a long time once he went down there.

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"What's up, guys?" he said, but this time it sounded hollow. The energy to play the upbeat guy was long gone. He almost let out a sigh, though he’d learned the hard way that showing real emotion in this world only brought trouble. It made you like a wounded deer, right in the path of a hungry wolf.

The guards of the PROMISED LAND were unfazed by the sadness in his voice. They didn’t react at all. The smallest one—no bigger than a child, and maybe he was one—flicked a cigarette butt into a puddle, where it fizzled out with a hiss.

"What d’ya want?"

Even his voice was that of a prepubescent boy, high-pitched and clear.

"I’m just looking for a place to sleep," Isaac said.

A few seconds passed before the big guy from the holy pope’s personal guard, the one ruling the so-called "PROMISED LAND",finally moved and answered him. "Not happening tonight."

He looked at the stranger with boredom, tapping twice on the small guy’s battered motorcycle helmet with a broken broomstick, maybe it was supposed to be a weapon? As if on cue, the little one started talking: "We’re housing 11,364 stranded people. Not a square centimeter left. Tunnels one and two are completely packed."

"Tough luck," the third guard chimed in, with a calmness that only comes from turning people away every day without a shred of pity.

Isaac, who already pictured himself sleeping on the street, getting robbed and set on fire by the lawless, pushed through his fear and put on his usual mask of humor. Because, as they say, weakness gets punished, but boldness? That often wins. With that unwritten rule in mind, he said, "Wait, wait, wait! You have to let me in! Look, see these? Golden hands!" He spread his long fingers wide. "I can fix any leaky pipe, any busted radio and every single crack in your precious tunnel. Once I’m in, you’ll never want me to leave. Ask the ladies, they feel the same way."

The three guards looked at each other, then burst out laughing. The small one, who looked barely more than a kid, leaned forward, hands resting on his battered kneepads. A moment later, he straightened up and said, "We could really use jokers like you down there. But still, we’re full."

"Yeah, I get that," Isaac replied, "but how many people do you have down there in those tunnels who are doing nothing for your so-called PROMISED LAND? The lazy ones who are dragging your land down with them? But me? I’m a pillar of society! I can make a difference down there."

None of the three seemed impressed. Not by him, nor by the bright white smile he flashed them, despite how he truly felt (That was his second life lesson: If you have nothing and you’re nobody, at least brush your teeth. A gleaming white smile is your ticket into a society that loves to be blinded).

"What do you think, Ben?" the big one asked the smaller one.

"Proof," Ben said. "You got any?" The guard coughed behind his fogged-up visor, flipped up his helmet and spat a wad of thick phlegm at Isaac’s feet. Definitely still a kid.

Isaac nodded frantically and rummaged through his backpack. In his mind, he was about to pull out his golden ticket, but then reality hit him: Conrad Blake had taken his precious papers earlier that afternoon, right after banishing him from the solar panel factory for life.

"Any time now?" one of the guards pressed.

"Just a second."

Isaac's worker ID, which allowed him access to the harbor district, was gone, but he found his old training certificate. With a hand gesture that looked like the big guard was about to tickle him under the arms, he signaled for Isaac to hand over the certificate. Under a narrow beam of light, the guard seemed to be assessing whether the piece of paper was a fake. Or maybe he was just pretending he could read.

The streetlight peeled back the veil of night from the guard’s face, revealing a twisted expression that sent a shiver down Isaac’s spine. Though this gatekeeper couldn’t have been much older than a teenager, his face had lost all the innocence someone his age should have held onto. His eyes were sunken, as if they had forgotten what joy or even a bit of childhood happiness felt like. His mouth sagged, the corners pulled down so low it looked like the skin might fall off his face at any moment. All of it was covered in dirt and scars.

"Trained solar technician, electronics specialist," the big gatekeeper summarized from the certificate. His voice, high-pitched but weighed down with something darker, only reinforced what his face already said: his chest was filled with a mountain of sorrow.

"We had another one like him earlier," said the small one with the biker helmet, Ben. "Yeah, someone from the solar panel factory. He was here a few hours ago. Pope Zodiac said we could always use guys like that, who can, you know, read or fix things."

The other two seemed to think it over.

"And you know we keep losing power down here."

"Yeah. An electrician would be pretty useful," said the tall one, suddenly revealing himself as the leader of the group. Then he asked, "Are you a Christian?"

Isaac hesitated. "Yes," he said.

The tall one nodded, clearing his throat. "Well, looks like those tough years of training and your faith in God are about to pay off: The Pope will let you in."

It wasn’t exactly good news, being allowed to spend the night in an underground tunnel, but it was a whole lot better than sleeping out on the streets, where organ thieves and outlaws roamed after dark. The thought of that forced a wide grin onto Isaac’s face.

But that small bit of joy quickly turned into dread when the gatekeepers named the condition for his entry...