September 29, 2045, 4:32 a.m.

City of Ann Arbor, Emergency Response Region IV

United States of America

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I push open the heavy door leading out of my apartment building and am greeted by a rush of cool night air, common for late September. The leaves on the towering maple trees are already tinged with streaks of tomato red and pumpkin orange, but they are barely visible in the deep darkness. I look quickly down at my pocket and weigh whether I should use the precious battery life in my cell phone that remains to light the way. I decide against it. Electricity these days is hard to come by. The government — or what’s left of it — has taken control of the electric grid and charges almost $25 per kilowatt-hour. Water isn’t much cheaper. The astronomical prices have left me with barely enough water to drink, and I don’t even know how much longer I’ll be able to do that. Prices are practically doubling every other day; we’ve been experiencing rapid hyperinflation ever since the debt default earlier this month. Last time I checked, a carton of milk is something like $80.

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A few hours ago, as I laid in bed, I tried to convince myself to stay put and not take this grave risk. All six emergency response regions are under a strict curfew from 5 p.m. to 9 a.m. Constitutional rights have been suspended in this time of great adversity. Anybody caught out in that 16 hour period is arrested and taken to the central police station immediately for processing and interrogation. But despite the current state of affairs, I realized I had no choice as I listened to my stomach growl and felt myself inhale through my parched throat. I had to stock up on supplies with the little money I had left before it was too late. My family always preached the importance of investing in the stock market, and I had invested most of my savings in index funds before the catastrophic stock market crash, when the market plummeted so quickly and so far that I lost 95 percent of my savings in 15 minutes. The $100 or so I have in my pocket now is barely enough to buy some drinking water, but it’s better than nothing. 

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I begin inching forward into the night, trying my hardest to stay invisible and undetectable. Every few seconds, my eyes scan the darkened surroundings for armed military patrols like a surveillance camera. I think the coast is clear, but my nerves grow by the minute anyway. Calm down, Jack, I try to tell myself aimlessly, but my pleas seem only to make my heart beat harder and faster.

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I walk forward about fifty feet before turning left at an intersection, marked by a red stop sign concealed almost entirely by graffiti. In the corner of my eye, I see a green sign reading “South University Avenue” bent over at a 50 degree angle. I continue on at a brisk pace, passing by broken storefronts that have been completely ransacked by starving people who’ve grown desperate. The sidewalk is littered with shards of shattered glass threatening to cut me if I’m not careful.

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After navigating the streets of Ann Arbor — a city that looks almost unrecognizable amid all of the rubble and devastation — for almost 20 minutes, I take a sharp right turn at a nondescript corner and begin inching down a dark alley behind East Liberty Street. It’s simply too dangerous right now to walk out in the open. I’m only three or so minutes away from my destination; my best friend Emma and I have arranged to meet at 5 a.m. sharp to scavenge for supplies.

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At last, I see a silhouette emerging from the darkness ahead. The figure holds a flashlight that illuminates the alley, cutting through the darkness and blinding my exhausted eyes.

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“Emma!” I exclaim excitedly.

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Instead of the voice of my friend, I hear loud words blasted through a bullhorn in return. “Freeze right where you are! Do it now!” Suddenly, the back of the building to my right is lit up with sharp flashes of blue and red light. 

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Before I have time to react, I feel a heavy hand grasp my arm and slide my wrists into metal handcuffs. “You are under arrest by the United States Armed Forces for violating curfew,” the bullhorn blares. I begin opening my mouth to protest but feel the hand wrap around my face. I continue to resist as the soldier leads me to an idling military jeep, placing me in the back seat and latching the door loudly behind me. Then, within 10 seconds, I hear the engine fire up and watch as the dark outlines of buildings pass by soundlessly in the night.

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After only about five minutes, the jeep passes through a military checkpoint and accelerates onto the highway. I know we’ll be arriving at central police headquarters in only 15 minutes. I have no time to even attempt any kind of an escape. I realize now that it’s all over. I close my eyes and cower in the corner of the back seat.

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I plead with my brain to shut my body down so I can sleep and escape this nightmare. I anxiously wait for exhaustion to come like a wave, washing all of my troubles away. But it never does. As I keep my eyes glued shut, I visualize images of what life used to be like just a short time ago. It was only three weeks ago when I moved back to Ann Arbor for my third year as a college student. It had seemed as if the whole school year was stretched out in front of me.

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The flashback — desperately trying to remember the past — is far too painful to experience. I shut the thoughts out and let tears stream down my face all at once, like a downpour in a rainstorm.