Waylon reached for his wrist comm, reassured by the knowledge that his neighbor was now in a far, far better place.

 

He hesitated before initiating the call. Actually, he realized, he wasn’t sure if that phrase — something he had picked up from bootleg Pre-Crash movies — was apt in this situation.

 

The Bureau of Euthanasia and Hazard Pay was vague in its public service announcements when describing the act of self-removal. But he’d heard rumors and personally hoped that the final arrangements in the process didn’t involve fertilizer or food sources. He liked to think that Ethel Lackluster was simply in a blissful afterlife, a place where she no longer had need for things like vehicles.

 

She would’ve wanted me to have the car, he told himself. As a symbol of our deep and lasting friendship. He plumbed his mind for sweet neighborly memories, but all he could think of was the time she had yelled at him to stop siphoning off power from her apartment’s life support system. Close enough.

 

He dialed the number.

 

There was a chime, and then a pleasant female voice came on the line. “You have reached the Department of Conservation and Whistleblower Services. DCWS: Proudly gatekeeping the nation’s resources since 2047. To report water or lithium smuggling, select ‘one.’ To join the Adopt-an-Incinerator program and memorialize a loved one, select ‘two.’ ”

 

A dark thought crept into Waylon’s mind. He had assumed that Ethel had no family, he realized, as he’d never seen anyone visit her. But if relatives were in the picture, they might misunderstand his motives in taking the car — or worse, press charges for theft.

 

He swatted the thought away, secure in the knowledge that he was honoring her last earthly instructions for him. Sort of. Technically, the last thing she’d told him was that she was tired of living in a run-down dump and was checking out of life. But he knew that, if she had stayed to talk longer, she would have mentioned her car.

 

The automated voice resumed at that moment, bringing him out of his thoughts. “To participate in the Credit-for-Recycling program and redeem an unneeded vehicle, prosthesis, or weapon, select ‘three.’ ”

 

“Three,” said Waylon.

 

“To redeem an industrial or urban combat vehicle, select ‘one.’ To redeem an ambulance, e-bike, or passenger car, select ‘two.’ ”

 

“Two.” He glanced around his tiny apartment, conjuring up the possibilities that Ethel’s kind gift of cash would bring. Well, technically speaking, he knew, the DCWS’ program only offered food and energy credits for trade-ins. But, thanks to the generous nature of his remaining neighbors — and the fact that they were lax in cybersecurity practices — his fuel and meal delivery needs were well tended to. So, he would sell those credits online for cash. Ethel wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

 

“Please hold while we connect you with a DCWS agent.” There was a momentary pause, and then a green icon flashed on his wrist comm, indicating an incoming video call.

 

Weird. In past calls to the program, he had never needed to be on-camera before. He swiped left, granting permission for the use of his microphone only. Must be somebody new.

 

The icon flashed again. Then, somehow, the caller overrode Waylon’s settings and forcibly transferred the channel to the wall screen embedded in front of him. He found himself being glared at by a brunette with an optical implant and sharp cheekbones.

 

“Congratulations, Mr. Glick,” she said. “As the twenty-fifth caller this hour, you’ve been selected to participate in our ‘Twenty-Five Years of DCWS’ campaign. You’ve been opted-in for our relocation experience.”

 

“Umm, that’s nice…” Waylon had a sinking feeling in his stomach and the distinct impression that the agent sounded neither congratulatory nor friendly. “But really, I just called to redeem a car.”

 

“Participation is not optional.”

 

“I see…” He suddenly felt choked for breath, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. “Well, about that relocation part. What exactly does that mean?”

 

She elaborated, her glare unchanging on the screen. “DCWS is committed to combating the harmful environmental effects of overpopulation. To that end, we’re selecting citizens for resettlement on the Mars colony.”

 

“Umm…” he started, groping for words. It seemed to him that his brain must have gone wherever the air went. With great effort, he recalled having read about the colony online. The article had been full of phrases like “hellish landscape” and “…some bodies still missing.”

 

He tugged at his collar desperately. “But, I just wanted to redeem a car! This must be a mistake!”

 

“The department doesn’t make mistakes,” she said, shaking her head. “Your settlement group is scheduled to leave on an interstellar freighter tomorrow. Stay in your home, Mr. Glick. Agents will collect you there shortly.”

 

A wave of panic crashed over Waylon, and for a minute, it felt like he would drown on dry land. He tried talking, but no sound came out.

 

And then, in a moment of clarity, a single-word solution came to him. Run!

 

That’s it! I just gotta get far away from here. I’ll head for the Open Zones. The thought brought his body back into motion, and he raced through the apartment, grabbing supplies. He crunched numbers in his mind, estimating that, with a full tank of gas, he could reach the safety of Pittsburgh by dusk.

 

Engrossed in planning, when he dashed for his front door, it took him a minute to realize that his legs had stopped working before they reached the threshold. He stood there, abruptly paralyzed.

 

From the wall screen behind him, the brunette sighed heavily. “Mr. Glick, you disappoint me. You didn’t really think you could run away, did you? That’s why we embed a neural agent in every citizen’s wrist comm. Get used to standing there — you’re going to be doing it for the next eight hours.”

 

Waylon looked down at the car key clutched in his frozen hand. Curse you, Ethel!