October 2079 (Present Day)

It’s been a little over two years since Max died. I think the ‘time heals all’ concept originated before our government started executing innocent teenagers. The pain is as real now as the day it happened. The haunting memory of Max screaming for his life as slaughterers dragged away his helpless body. The fear engulfing his eyes. His violent thrusts slowly giving way to inevitability. These images burn through me every night I lie down to sleep. The harder I try to forget, the more vivid the memories become. My father too. He hasn’t been the same since Max died—er, sorry—was murdered as he often likes to remind me behind closed doors.

On the day of Max’s Review, Dad had traded an entire week’s worth of water credits to install a basketball hoop in the backyard of our suburban rancher. The delivery guy was setting it up during the Review. It was going to be a grand birthday surprise for the ages. It wasn’t until we got home that we realized all of Max’s buddies had even showed up and wrapped ribbon around the backboard and fastened an oversized bow to the net. They were waiting in our backyard and yelled, “Surprise!” when I opened the back sliding door. It didn’t take long for them to recognize the tragic outcome by the tears still soaking my face.

The hoop still stands today but not as the renowned birthday gift it was intended. Instead, it’s a ten-foot memorial of a dead teen every time my dad looks out the kitchen window. I try to shoot around every now and then to change the connotation. I even try to talk hoops and ask questions about past greats to further sell my interest. But deep down I think he knows I’m doing it mostly for his benefit. Hopefully he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. And hey, at least my jumpshot is semi-worth bragging about.

Dad swears to this day foul play was involved in Max’s Review. He wasn’t a child prodigy by any means but had plenty of potential. Certainly enough to warrant a three-year extension on life. I’ve seen total idiots in my school breeze through Restoration and pass their Competency Reviews after all. But the truth is, foul play is more the norm than the exception.

When a Sector falls behind Census expectations, they face water credit restrictions from the Oasis—that’s the very unimaginative name Chancellor Harlow came up with for government headquarters—until it’s rectified. That typically means quicker executions for even the most modest of offenders. It’s corrupt and it’s unethical but there is nothing we can do about it. Our leaders run this nation more like a cartel or a mob than an actual government. Maybe the judges were sincere in their scoring? Or Maybe Max was simply a victim of poor timing? It doesn’t matter. And we’ll never know because they’ll never tell us. Instead we just carry on in a state of perpetual fear and despondency.

There is one exception from this melancholic existence which happens to be today, New Dawn! Almost ten years ago the Oasis levied sweeping agricultural restrictions against citizens rated below a 10... one of which was beef. Supposedly it takes almost two thousand gallons of water to produce a single pound of beef. The cattle need water, the grass they eat needs to be irrigated, the actual cleaning and production process requires water... it’s a lot.

Chancellor Harlow decided it was a luxury us lesser-contributors to society shouldn’t afford and placed massive restrictions on production. Beef is still available at 10-rated restaurants but as the label suggests, only 10-rated citizens are allowed entry. Same with grocers. Each has a minimum-Rating that nobody below may access, even if you’ve saved enough credits to purchase the contents inside. The higher your Rating, the better you eat. I suppose it’s meant to be motivating but it feels more discriminatory than anything. You’re identified more by your Rating than your personality. Like the caste system of Ancient India or the segregation era of mid-1900’s America.

The same goes for all sorts of food and drink that require water-intensive production. Pork, chicken, dairy, nuts, rice, corn... beer as my dad likes to remind me. You can purchase items above your Rating through the black market but they cost a fortune in water credits, something we’ve never had the luxury of owning.

Anyways, New Dawn. On October 8, 2062, after Chancellor Harlow officially voided the Constitution and disbanded the United States of America creating a new nation known as Okeanos, he commemorated the day and coined it New Dawn. Realizing there wasn’t much celebrating taking place, a few years back Chancellor Harlow decided to allow all citizens of Okeanos, regardless of Competency Rating, to enjoy their pound of meat on this one celebratory day of the year. He said you need to taste success to want it! I guess this serves as our annual reminder.

My dad swears the beef offering was originated to curb mounting chatter of a rebellion—an olive branch of sorts to build loyalty amongst constituents—but I’m not sure where he got that. From my experience, when Chancellor Harlow sees something he doesn’t like, he squashes it with violence and force, not compromise. I believe every move he makes is one hundred percent self-serving.

I’m not complaining, though. A pound of meat probably doesn’t sound like much but there’s little else to get excited about these days. That’s why I woke up bright and early and jogged over to our township’s meat depot which is stationed at Oakmont Park, only about a half mile from my house. Guess I wasn’t the only one because the line was wrapped around the park three times by the time I arrived. I’ve been standing here for almost two hours but a break from our normal diet of grains, vegetables, and beans is well worth the wait.

“Rainey!” I hear someone yell in the near distance. That’s me. Well, Lorraine actually but everybody has called me Rainey since I was born. Given the water-starved Earth we inhabit, my mom used to tell me my name is a blessing. People more religious than me often pray for rain after all.

I survey the surrounding area and find my best friend, Lincoln, waving from about twenty folks ahead. Hard to believe I hadn’t noticed him all this time I’ve been standing in line. I guess the savory aroma of beef circulating through the balmy, fall air kept me distracted enough.

“Hey!” I yell back, instantly feeling awkward as all of the people directly in front and behind me turn and stare. I switch to make-shift sign language and point to a picnic table off to the side. Lincoln nods in understanding.

By the time I collect my sixteen ounces of steak that I swear looks closer to eight, Lincoln is waiting by the table for me. “Big plans for your steak dinner?” he asks as we begin our walk home.

“I may have you grill mine after last year,” I tell him.

“You don’t want a shot at redemption?”

In an act of independence last year, I decided I wasn’t going to wait for Dad to get home on New Dawn. One shot, no mulligans, but I was determined. I fired up the grill, threw on the steak, and set the timer just like he taught me. In hindsight, the excessive smoke seeping out of the sides should have served as the canary in the coal mine but what did I know? Grills always produce smoke, don’t they?

By the time my stopwatch went off, I opened the cover to flip the steak and found it fully ablaze. I had gone through the complete checklist: twist the knob on the propane tank counter-clockwise, turn the dial to high, press the igniter until a flame is caught, and then ease back to somewhere between medium and low. Only I had forgotten to use the scraper thing on the cooking grate causing the highly flammable grease residue to turn the inside of the grill into an inferno. The result was a super-charred, well, well done treat for my German shepherd, Maverick. He didn’t seem to mind. Happy New Dawn, buddy.

When my Dad got home I told him I nailed it which is too bad because he unquestionably would have given me his had he known. I guess my pride wasn’t worth a few bites of mouthwatering steak. Six months later I caved and told Lincoln. The wounds had healed and it was too funny not to.

“Nope, too risky. Dad keeps saying I need to put some meat on these bones so this is my only shot.”

We pace through the bustling park towards home. I might’ve been hesitant to walk in public with a steak a couple years ago. After all, a luxury like this might entice some desperate kook to mug me and take it. But if Restoration has done one thing, it’s created an environment of discipline and order. With Specters roaming the streets, people really have to be on their best behavior at all times. Is a steak really worth risking your life over? With the way we live... probably. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take at the moment, especially with Lincoln by my side.

Linc is tall and slender but has a build that comes off as athletic; it’s lean yet muscular. He’s undoubtedly handsome but the kind of guy who doesn’t know it—or is at least humble enough not to let on that he does. Most girls in school have had a crush on him at some point or another. Not me, though. He’s my oldest friend and I just never really looked at him that way. Of course that doesn’t stop my friends from teasing me that we’ll be married one day.

We cut through the woods and enter the street leading into our community. From across the sidewalk, an older couple with interlocking arms offers a friendly wave and a smile. They saunter along looking impossibly happy. I envy them for a moment but then over their shoulders see a Specter lurking. Specters are creepy-looking figures who prowl around in black robes like something an ancient friar would wear. They are hand-selected by the Chancellor’s office and immune to any of the governance in which the rest of us are forced to abide. Their job is to roam about taking notes on the civilians of their jurisdiction and report back to the Competency Review Boards. Maybe the couple was truly happy, maybe they were putting on a show... it’s impossible to tell. The lines of truth have been blurred so badly they don’t even exist anymore.

We carry on for three more blocks and arrive at my house. My dad and I live in a quaint community consisting mostly of shingled single-family ranchers built in the early 2020’s. They’re admittedly antiquated but charming in their own right. The streets combing through our community are lined with the skeletons of black walnut trees that dried out maybe a decade ago. They’re not very welcoming and I’ve been hoping they’ll fall over on their own but the bones have proven rather resilient. There’s been chatter around the neighborhood about tearing them down as other communities have but nobody has championed the cause enough to invoke action on the matter.

My dad has long dreamed of upgrading but he doesn’t have the water credits. “What we lack in square footage, we make up for in love!” he often reminds me. Once upon a time Dad was a successful financial advisor. That man could beat the S&P with his eyes closed. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds... I don’t really understand any of that stuff but it doesn’t stop him from telling me about it.

When Chancellor Harlow began flooding our economy with water credits in lieu of traditional American currency, our financial system imploded. What good was a dollar if it couldn’t buy anything? For a while you could still go to the supermarket or department store and use cash. But after some time, businesses began exclusively accepting water credits. It was the only way to keep their doors open. Once a couple of the large dominos fell, the others immediately followed suit and Wall Street became obsolete. The collateral damage was millions of employees in the financial services industry suddenly without employment. Bankers, stockbrokers, analysts, you name it.

My father didn’t have much experience doing anything else. He bounced around between contract work and unemployment for a few years until ultimately a good friend needed some help on his grain farm. Truthfully, Dad really didn’t have much of a choice. He was ninety days away from a Competency Review and the last thing you ever want to do is show up to a Competency Review unemployed.

Lincoln and I breeze up my driveway to the front door. We walk inside and are instantly mauled by Maverick who jumps up and balances himself against Lincoln’s shoulders while slobbering all over him in affection. “Ew, Mav. Stop it!” Lincoln shouts, while shielding his face from Maverick’s advances. “When are you gonna train him to stop doing this?” he asks me through his struggles.

“What? No way! You have to remember, this is acceptable behavior in Maverick’s culture.”

Once we’re finally able to appease Mav’s affection needs, we enter the kitchen where I can see my dad through the glass sliding door to the backyard patio. We proceed outside to find him buried underneath a stack of paperwork, probably crop inventory or something.

“Stop working, Dad. It’s New Dawn.”

“You know what they say, sweetheart. It’s nine AM somewhere,” he says with a chuckle as he starts putting the papers away. I have a feeling he’s been done for a while but came up with that line and decided it was good enough to wait out.

“How are you, Mr. Hawthorne?” Lincoln asks.

“I’m good, Lincoln. Hey, I ran into your mother at the market the other day. She said you’re thinking about skipping Upper Ed?”

Lincoln immediately looks at me in defense. “Well, it’s not totally for sure yet. I just thought it might be an option. You know, so I can help pay the bills sooner.”

Upper Ed is our secondary education system. After graduating high school, students have the opportunity to attend a trade school within their Sector or go straight into entry-level work. Lincoln and I have long talked about attending the same Upper Ed program which undoubtedly is why he was so quick to respond, seeing as this is the first I’ve heard about it.

“Just remember,” my dad says, “the Chancellor is placing a premium on education and it’s supposed to have a significant impact on Ratings.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Lincoln says. “But we need 6-rated income today instead of 8-rated income two years from now.”

“I’m not here to judge. And trust me, I get it. Desperate times, desperate measures. Do what you gotta do.”

“Does that mean I can skip Upper Ed too then?” I ask him.

“Absolutely not,” Dad replies without hesitation.

We share a few laughs and Lincoln and I take off. We’re meeting up with some friends to celebrate the holiday. We had been trying to decide for weeks how to celebrate today. Public entertainment certainly isn’t what it used to be. Once upon a time there was the Roman Empire with gladiators fighting in the Colosseum, chariots racing through the Circus Maximus, street performers juggling for the masses. The last century had professional sports, a must-see blockbuster movie, and chart-topping rock bands selling out stadiums. These all disappeared when Chancellor Harlow abolished the entertainment industry as a whole. When the global water crisis hit, he saw no place for performers offering the people relief from the stresses of their daily lives. He saw them as a hindrance on our productivity. How could we save the planet from its stark realities if we were constantly looking for a distraction from them, after all?

He ended up just sort of smoking out the industry. Celebrities and athletes couldn’t even pass a Competency Review if they didn’t find additional, more productive work outside of their day jobs. And it wasn’t a bluff. The Chancellor executed a few high-profile celebrities who objected to his ultimatum. That sent a shockwave across the industry until it eventually just collapsed as so many others did. The message stuck: a profession does not have to be glamorous, it just has to be useful. Music, sports, and theater still exist but solely as hobbies. There’s no income to be earned so you don’t see them much.

Nowadays we citizens are more reliant on our own creativity to generate entertainment. Hence, this afternoon we conceded to celebrating the day off at an abandoned water park that shut down about a decade earlier. The owner was never able to sell the land—probably because of all the useless equipment sitting on the property—so the government seized it but never redeveloped the property. It’s become a popular hangout for teens so I suspect we’ll run into some other classmates today.

When Lincoln and I arrive, I survey the grounds for authority. We’ve been here a hundred times without ever seeing a Specter but I still can’t help myself. We are trespassing after all and I’m pathologically fearful of getting caught doing anything wrong. I’m still pretty reluctant today but the repetitions have provided some level of comfort and security. Once I’m satisfied the coast is clear, we approach the main gate. There’s a chain-link fence surrounding the property but it’s been clipped in so many places it’s harder to miss an entry point than find one. We slip through and enter the park.

As we pass the dilapidated concession stands and rusted cotton candy machines, I see our friends, Juby and Milo, in the distance posted up next to the largest slide in the park. It empties into an expansive crater in the cement where a pool used to reside. We hear our names being shouted but it’s not Juby or Milo. We look up to see Smud—well Gilbert Smuditker but just Smud for as long as we’ve known him—climbing off the ladder and onto the platform atop the giant slide. He’s shirtless but totally unabashed by his husky frame. “Happy New Dawn citizens of Okeanos!” he shouts with enough excitement to expose his sarcastic intent.

He dives headfirst down the tubular slide and glides like an Olympic bobsledder. I sprint to the empty pool in fear for his safety when he hits the concrete bottom. I’m only halfway there as he flies out of the chute and soars into the air. I close my eyes waiting for the loud thud of his oversized body hitting the pool bottom. Instead, I’m relieved to hear an emphatic, “Woooo!” from the man-turned-cannonball. I run to the edge and see he’s stacked the landing area with piles of old cushions and pool paraphernalia.

“Smud, ughhh!” I yell at him from across the pool. Lincoln and I walk around the perimeter to Milo and Juby who have wrangled up some reclining lounge chairs in half-decent condition with towels draped over top. Smud climbs out of the pool from the ladder on the side.

“I thought you were about to kill yourself,” I say as he approaches.

“Wouldn’t that have just made the Chancellor’s holiday?”

“Dude, you were flying. Is the water hooked up?” Lincoln asks.

Smud smiles and holds up a bucket of petroleum jelly from behind his lounge chair. “Wanna take a spin?”

“I’m good,” I tell him.

Juby takes off her cover-up and rubs the lubricant on her bikini-clad body. “Oh, come on, Rainey. Try not being such a square for once in your life.”

“Bucket list,” I reply with a wink and a nod.

“Hell yeah I wanna take a spin,” Lincoln says as he tears off his shirt and follows suit with Milo.

I ignore their taunts and lie down on a lounge chair. It’s early October but might as well be the middle of July. Changing weather conditions and irresponsible carbon emissions control over the past few decades have resulted in warmer climates globally; something on full display as the sun has reached its peak and scorches down on us from above.

There are other groups of teens scattered throughout the park and I glance around to see if I recognize any of them. Not to say hello but to decide whether or not to take off my shorts and T-shirt and sunbathe in my swimsuit. I’m helplessly self-conscious and reluctant to wear a suit even in front of my closest friends, let alone other students from school.

I’m not necessarily ashamed of my physical appearance. I have what most would consider a pretty face with light brown hair that works both down or pulled back. My brown eyes are a little boring but I’m not complaining about them either. I’m just a little on the taller side at five-ten with a rail-thin body that often makes me feel insecure. Again, I’m not complaining. I’m just more of the ‘cute and pretty’ variety than ‘hot and sexy’ and can’t help but to feel uncomfortable most of the time.

Despite the heat, I conclude this place is far too crowded with other schoolmates so I succumb to my insecurity and leave my shorts and T-shirt on. I roll the sleeves up to my shoulders as a consolation. Better than nothing I decide.

“Rainey Hawthorne, if you don’t take that shirt off right now, I’m ripping it off,” a voice behind me says. I turn around to see my other best friend, Zari, approaching from the rear. Zari is our group’s firecracker. She’s always totally gorgeous with her radiant, mixed complexion but even more so on days like today when her frizzy, shoulder-length hair falls down over her fierce eyes. She looks like a tiger peeking through the tall grass of the jungle.

“Yeah right. I wasn’t going to even before you arrived,” I say while rolling my eyes.

Zari leans down and gives me a hug from my seat. She drops her jean shorts and tank top to reveal her perfectly-toned body and lies down next to me.

“I’m gonna hurt you, you beautiful princess,” she says.

“How’d your Competency Review go?” Zari has the unfortunate luck of sharing a birthday with New Dawn. No exceptions from the Oasis; rules are rules. But it’s not like she had much to worry about. She was an 8 going in and has done absolutely nothing to jeopardize that Rating.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she replies.

We sit back and watch our friends take turn-after-turn flying down the massive slide. Each catapult into the air ends with the same elated scream as acceleration fights gravity resulting in weightlessness. Just watching them and their child-like enjoyment provides more than enough joy for me. Apparently others have taken note as well. The line has gotten longer as school acquaintances and total strangers alike jump on the bandwagon.

Lincoln, exhausted from another climb up the ladder, comes over and takes a seat in the open chair next to us to catch his breath.

“Missing a hell of a time, ladies,” he says as more of a question than a statement.

“I can tell. You okay there, sport?” I say back.

“Makes you wonder doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Wonder what?”

“Just what things could have been like had Chancellor Harlow not won. How different the world might be.”

“Well he did so there’s no point in fantasizing about it,” I say.

“A guy can always dream, right? Oh, and happy birthday, Zari,” he says and sprints back to the ladder for another trip down the slide.

********

I got home a little before seven-thirty which was just enough time to enjoy dinner with my dad in the backyard. He was right in the middle of a pretty hilarious story about a fellow grain farmer who pretended to be a scarecrow and was terrorizing other farmers when we noticed it was two minutes until our firm nine PM cutoff. Tonight, after all, is the annual Okeanic Address, delivered every year on the evening of New Dawn by Chancellor Harlow. It’s an opportunity for him to remind us just how very lucky we are to be alive.

Dad and I hustle inside and take a seat on the suede family room sofa. He flips on the television. No need to change the channel because there’s only one, Oasis Broadcast News, O-B-N baby! They broadcast twenty-four/seven with scintillating content like the status of the Census, updates on our freshwater supply, new restrictions on usage, and pretty much anything else they feel like jamming down our throats. It’s all propaganda so our TV is rarely on but tonight is not optional. We are required by punishment of death to watch the Okeanic Address every year. Who knows how they regulate that but it’s a risk we’d rather not take.

Right as the clock hits nine PM sharp we hear the melodic DUN-dun-DUN of the broadcast beginning. Chancellor Harlow is looking dapper as ever in his most imperial of suits. His wavy, side-parting hair is locked perfectly in place. He sits behind his exotic, Bocote-wood desk in a chair more resembling of a throne. A series of miniature crystal fountains trickle water back and forth, glistening on the shelves behind him.

“Glad to see our labors going to good use,” my dad says. I sneer at him and Harlow begins.

“Happy New Dawn, citizens of Okeanos. What a great year it has been. I hope you’ve taken today to spend time with family, friends, and loved ones to reflect on all the great things we’ve accomplished together. This regime will continue to make possible a standard of living nobody dreamed imaginable when our global water crisis first struck. We’ve made tremendous progress towards our goal of sustainable and higher-quality life but we still have work to do. Censuses are down but not where we need them to be. As a result, I’m exercising my Executive Privilege to reduce water credit allotments across all Competency Ratings.”

“And the poor get poorer,” Dad says.

“There are shortages across the country that we must band together to improve,” Harlow continues.

“How about you start by turning off those damn fountains!” Dad shouts.

“In addition, I will be increasing the frequency of Competency Reviews, effective immediately, from triennial to annual.”

“What!” I shriek at the television. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! He can’t do that! Can he do that?” My dad hushes me so he can listen on.

“We must continue to hold ourselves accountable to the highest standards. This will ensure we stay resilient in our endeavor to remain the premier nation this world has to offer. I realize this may come as a shock but I need you to remember, Restoration is a privilege. You have the right to earn your survival each and every day. Thank you all for your commitment to our cause and have a great evening.”

The broadcast abruptly turns to black and my dad shuts off the television. “Can he do this?” I ask again.

“He’s the Chancellor. He can do whatever he wants.”

“Yeah but this is different.”

“Look, sweetheart. The reality is we’re auditioning for our lives every day, not every third year. I know it’s hard to understand right now but there’s a higher purpose. Your mother taught me that. Fate is more powerful than even the direst of circumstances. Unfortunately it’s something we only recognize in hindsight but I promise one day you will.”

“This isn’t fair. How can he have so much control over us? How did we let this happen?” I scream.

I realize I sound like a petulant five-year old but I can’t help myself. I don’t buy into fate or karma or any of that crap. The whole thing is a farce parents use to instill a code of ethics in their children. I’ve seen righteous people live miserable lives and wretched people live fairytales. There’s no reckoning down the line. It simply is what it is and that’s it. And the truth is I don’t even care about the increased frequency of Competency Reviews. My dad’s right, we’re always on trial. What I care about is the impact these new restrictions have on hope because hope is all we have left in this dumpster fire of a world created by Chancellor Harlow. Hope that a better life exists an achievable distance away somewhere on the horizon.

When I was younger, I’d get presents for Christmas and not even open them. It drove my parents crazy but it was the only way I could hold onto the hope it was something I might love and avoid the disappointment if it wasn’t. If love is supreme, hope is the ultimate hedge to disappointment. And that’s what’s being threatened by each new sanction the Chancellor imposes upon us. Our hope that things will get better before they get worse. And I no longer have the luxury of being a little girl, closing my eyes, and pretending something doesn’t exist. These sanctions aren’t some gift I can leave wrapped under a Christmas tree. No, disappointment has presented itself in its most raw form and there’s exactly nothing that can be done about it. So instead I stomp upstairs, lie down in bed, and immediately begin preparing for my upcoming Competency Review in March.