2084

It was a sweltering February day in Washington DC. The sky was a hazy grey blue, like dried concrete, and the sun was a relentless spotlight on anyone caught in her gaze. Marshall Smith was anxious to get home but walked at his normal pace, staying in the shadows of the buildings as much as he could to avoid the direct sunlight. Slim-built and quiet, Marshall was a thirty-eight-year-old rule-following citizen who, much like everyone else, feared the consequences of stepping over any line that may expose him as anything less than an absolute patriot. He had never done anything remotely treasonous in his entire life until a few months ago.

When Marshall reached his place, he looked up at the dirty red brick, four story apartment building in Prospera Haven. Approximately five decades ago, his building, along with every other identical building in the neighborhood, was constructed by Frederick Building Corp after the area, formally known as Anacostia, was bulldozed and the less desirable residents moved out in the name of development, strengthening of the country, and cleaning up of the nation's capital. Like every other building on the block, it had eight windows per story (aside from the first floor, which had six and an entrance door in the middle), contained sixteen apartments, and wore upon its facade decades of sad neglect.

The walk from the bus stop to his home was only a short ten minutes, but in that time the combination of heat and anxiety had already caused Marshall to sweat through his undershirt; his white dress shirt was starting to splotch; and his light tan khaki pants were sticking uncomfortably to his legs.

His phone vibrated in his pocket just as he was about to reach for the front door handle. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It was a Facts Social update. Four Resistance terrorists had just been apprehended in Chicago in a failed attempt to blow up a local hospital. The president would address the nation later that evening.

Marshall put the phone back in his pocket and opened the front door, hoping for a rush of cool, air-conditioned relief. Instead, he walked into a wall of soupy hot lobby air.

God damn AC's still out, Marshall thought sadly to himself and wondered why he was still hopeful that it would have been fixed.

Mrs. Johnson, an older woman of about sixty in a threadbare blue flower dress, short black pumps, and too much makeup stood by the row of brass mailboxes checking for letters. The box, as all mailboxes have been for decades, was empty. Above the bank of boxes was the same gold framed photograph of the Holy American President that donned the entrance of every apartment, business, and government building in the country. The portrait was that of a square faced man of between fifty and seventy, with blond hair combed to his left, bluish brown eyes, and a stern face that read "do not cross me." He wore a dark blue suit, a red tie, and his right hand pointed forward, as if out of the photo and directly at the viewer.

Upon hearing Marshall enter, Mrs. Johnson turned and her mind seemed to snap back to the present, as her disappointed face quickly shifted into an emotionless smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Smith," she greeted him with a cheerful voice that did not reach her eyes.

Marshall smiled back. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson," he replied. Marshall saw Mrs. Johnson at least a few times a week by this mailbox, part of her mind several decades in the past, waiting for a letter that would not come from a daughter who had been erased. "A hot one today. I hear it might hit a hundred and ten tomorrow. Hope they get the air fixed by then."

"I'm sure they will, dear. The boys at Frederick Management are the best. They'll have it fixed in no time!" She said with a less than optimistic tone as she glanced nervously at Marshall's pants pocket.

"You're right, of course," Marshall replied and began walking directly towards the stairs. The elevator had been out of order for some time now and he stopped bothering to check it months ago. "Have a nice night now."

"You too, dear," Mrs. Johnson said as she turned back towards her first-floor apartment.

Marshall had the urge to run up the stairs two at a time, but he knew that would sound suspicious, and he did not want to get his heart racing. So he walked up one step at a time as he normally did. He finally got to his third-floor apartment door and looked into the retinal scanner in the middle of the door. The door slid open, Marshall took a step through, and the door quickly slid back shut.

The apartment was a small, one bedroom, one bathroom unit. He walked into the main living space, which was sparsely furnished with a table for two — which had never sat more than one — a couch barely large enough for three facing a wall mounted television screen, and a faux-wood coffee table. His only picture screen was hung above the couch and currently showed an image of a mountain range in the springtime. The apartment was stifling. He opened the window by the couch, placed a box fan that was sitting on the floor in the windowsill facing out so as not to blow the sunbaked hot air into the apartment, and turned it to high. He then went into his bedroom, walked around his twin sized bed, opened the window, and placed a fan there too.

Perhaps it's good that the AC is out. The fan noise might give me some cover.

Marshall then carefully went through his normal routine. He placed his phone on the bedside table and began slowly stripping off his sweat soaked clothing. When he took off his pants, he was careful not to let the object in his left pocket hit the floor and make any noise. He then brought the day's clothes into the bathroom, placed them in the washing machine, and turned on the shower. I wish I normally closed the bathroom door to shower, he thought. But he normally did not so he left it open. He turned back to the washing machine and quietly removed the box from his pants pocket, carefully unlocked it, opened the lid, and looked down at the old smartphone nestled within.