“But drop something, even if it is some of the local stuff.” I set the table as we talk. “We should spend time together, before—” I don’t finish the sentence. It’s hard to talk about the impact, now only six months away, when there is only a remote hope that we will escape.
“Okay,” Lynn replies, and I pause to stare at her. I expected her to push back. “Life is shit right now, but it’s not total shit.” She looks tired and stressed. The resignation in her voice worries me. It’s just not her. “We should spend more time together.”
“Thank you. I’m just worried is all.” She doesn’t reply, but instead stands up and walks over and takes the spoon from my hand to help with dinner.
I step back and watch as she stirs, feeling powerless as the silence lingers. “You shouldn’t worry,” she whispers. When I don’t reply, she turns and looks at me. I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. She is Lynn, and she knows what to say, even now.
She smiles, the stress and weariness is gone. “Fuck it, let’s get married!”
I talk to my mom and my dad, and Lynn talks to hers. My mom is excited about attending, no matter when we hold it, but my dad is noncommittal. Lynn’s parents are somewhere on Route 66, following their dream of driving its entire length. They promise to make time for our wedding.
As we tell our friends, the wedding is a beacon of light amidst the gloom. We set a date a month away. That is still five months before the impact, and the hope is that Star News will fly us out shortly afterward. I organize the wedding while Lynn works non-stop.
I’m struggling to find a band for the reception when my phone rings. It’s Lynn. “Hey, Love! How’s your day going?” I ask.
“This fucked-up world has somehow done something right.” She is so excited that I can picture the phone shaking in her hand. “The UN is announcing that they are going to expatriate people from North America to other countries. It starts in two weeks. My editor just told me an announcement is coming later today.”
I can’t quite let myself believe what she is saying. “So we’ll be able to leave for another country?”
“Yes. I mean no. It’s not that simple. There’s going to be a lottery, an expatriation lottery. There simply isn’t enough time or resources to move a half billion people from one side of the world to the other.”
I do the math in my head, and it doesn’t add up. “Sure there is. There have to be enough ships and planes to get everyone out in half a year.”
“I told you; it’s not that simple. Do you really think Saudi Arabia would take a few million Christian refugees? Some countries won’t accept any Americans, and others are focused on their own disaster preparation. So we’re basically on our own in terms of making it work.”
“Then we may not make it.”
“Jesus, Em. Can’t you at least be thankful for a little bit of good news? At least we now have a better chance! Think of it this way: This takes pressure off Star News to save everyone on their staff. Our chances of them flying us out are much greater. Plus, we may even win the lottery.” She pauses, and then adds, her voice tentative, “Should we change our wedding plans?”
“Well, it sounds like there’s still so much up in the air. Maybe we should just continue with business-as-usual?”
“Yes, of course, but we should be prepared to be flexible.” I’m used to Lynn’s hope and optimism, so her response is a pleasant surprise. Flexible? That I can embrace. Hell, moving from likely death to having to be flexible is about the best thing ever. Getting married in Austin and then emigrating to France? Fine. Emigrating to England and then getting married there? Also fine. Before I can reply, she adds, “Although it would be nice to get married in Venice.”
I can practically see her smile through the phone as she says it. She hasn’t been this happy in a long time, and I realize I need her happiness. I don’t want her to be flexible. “Or Kilimanjaro!” I reply. Lynn was right. I should be thankful, and I am. My enthusiasm is real. Lynn makes it real. We discuss kisses at sunset and sweetheart necklines, and I am so full of joy that I can barely breathe.
Lynn covers the impact of the Lottery on families as it starts—the winner, the losers, the joy, and the pain. I beg her to stop after a third man who was not chosen commits suicide in front of her and her cameraman. Despite the good intentions, the lottery is a near universal target of anger and suspicion. The details of the lottery cause riots, but they make sense to my political mind: all military and their families are automatically eligible for expatriation. This is deeply unpopular, but it makes the management of the lottery work. Corruption is minimized when the benefit of any bribe is far outweighed by the possible punishment of losing your family’s spot on an outgoing boat or plane.
However, people ignore the rational, and it scares me with Lynn in the middle of it all. It’s made worse by the process. While the internet and the country’s infrastructure still function at a basic level, the lottery is decidedly non-technical. Selection is done ahead of time at local offices and notification is done face-to-face at heavily guarded buildings in urban centers. You go. You find out your fate. You leave.
“What if one of them decides to take out others before taking his own life?” I say to her. I don’t mention that I worry about her own psyche. How many deaths can you witness before it scars you forever? She came home in shock after the first one, but after the third she barely considered it worth mentioning.
To my surprise she agrees. “It’s already an old story,” she adds. The lottery has been in effect for a whole week, and the suicides are already an “old” story. It saddens me, although I’m glad Lynn doesn’t seem to grasp the pathos illustrated by her words. She adds, “Plus, we have a wedding coming up!”
The wedding is in two weeks. I never did book a band, but a friend agreed to act as DJ. We are to get married at the Four Seasons in Austin, which will be convenient for our family and friends, and has the benefit of a waterfront background for the ceremony itself. It’s not what I had in mind, but it still makes me gasp when I think of it.
Both of our expatriation interview dates are a month out, so we don’t think about the lottery very much. It’s hope for an indeterminate future, and that’s good enough for now.
For once I find out something before Lynn. A friend of my mother’s is in the Expatriation Office and mentioned something to her in passing. My mom immediately called me in a panic. Marriages have been suspended.
“Wait, why would they do that?” I can’t quite believe the news. It makes no sense.
“Because there are two components to the lottery. The first is that every individual in the country is eligible, and the second is that if you win, you get to emigrate with your entire immediate family. Do you understand?”
“No,” I reply. Maybe I do understand but just don’t want to. I just can’t believe that something as basic as a life-saving lottery would have a loophole.
“People are getting married to increase their odds. And if you have a lot of kids your odds are even greater. Haven’t you seen the news about the explosion of marriages?” I did, but I assumed it was due to the impending mass death and others in Lynn’s and my position—wanting to finally get married before it was too late. That people would get married to game the system didn’t even cross my mind.
“So they are canceling marriages entirely because individuals with kids are getting married to other people with kids, and all they need is one from the entire group to win and then they all are saved?”