And there is Lynn. I cannot read her face. Did she win? Is she safe? She sees me through the window, and gives a half wave from her waist. I run out to her, and we meet on the sidewalk. I look in her eyes, and she nods her head.
She hugs me, and I cry.
A couple in another car pull in as we walk across the parking lot, Lynn’s hand in mine. I catch a glimpse of their faces but turn away. Lynn is waiting for me, and I close my door on the pain and uncertainty outside.
I don’t remember the trip home. I don’t remember much at all. I just hold Lynn in my arms, afraid to let her go, afraid that maybe it isn’t real.
I am filled with more happiness than I knew was possible as the love of my life will be safe and this wonderful amazing woman who has filled my life with such joy will not have her light go out due to the cruelty of the heavens or fate or whatever has decreed that life is now nothing more than a lottery she will live she will live she will live.
• • • •
A few days later, Lynn comes home at lunchtime, which surprises me because she is still on the Star News beat. I don’t know which story she is covering, but I assume it’s something amusing; the stories of riots, murders, rapes, and suicides are unpopular, and Europe appears addicted to stories of bucketlisters doing crazy things, so Lynn has been covering every bucket list item imaginable and enjoying every minute of it.
“Hey, what’s up? Slow news day?” I smile. There is no longer such a thing as a slow news day.
“I quit.”
I put my book down and stand up. “What? Why?”
“The government has commandeered all of Star News’ North American transportation to maximize expatriation efforts.”
I collapse back on the couch. “Oh.” There goes any hope of the company getting us out.
“They fucking lied to me, Em. They knew this was going to happen for weeks.
My boss knew
! They just were negotiating how late they would have to wait before handing over the keys to the government.” She slams her fist into the wall. “They knew.
They fucking knew
!”
“Then why didn’t they fly us out earlier?”
“I don’t know. Because they’re evil bastards. Because I was doing my job too well. Does it matter?” She sits down next to me. “We’re
fucked
.”
I put my arms around her and rest my head on her shoulder. “No we’re not. You’re safe. That’s something. And my appointment is in a few days.” I had hoped my appointment wouldn’t matter, but now it would be the single most important moment of my life. Lynn—who has been my rock for the past eight years—looks like she’s going to fall apart. I didn’t realize she had invested so much in Star News getting us out of the country. “Hey.” I lift my head, touch her chin, and turn her face to mine. “You know me. I’m the luckiest person in the world.” She isn’t crying, and that somehow makes her pain seem worse. “After all, I have you.”
She
is
crying now. I hold my palm against her cheek. We kiss, and there isn’t anything else to say.
• • • •
When we arrive for my appointment, I leave Lynn behind, and it his
her
turn to wait amongst the desperation. During my walk to the gate I think about the unfairness of it all. This entire trip would be unnecessary if Lynn and I were married. She’d won, and thus I would have won, too.
I go through a metal detector, a magnetic resonance scanner, and a chemical detector of some sort. Signs everywhere warn people that if they are carrying any banned substances at all they will lose their place in the lottery. A few people are going through the process with me, and they look nervous and drawn, almost haunted. I wonder if I look the same way. The soldiers are business-like and intimidating but nice enough.
I walk up to a guard at a booth on the other side of the security room and hand him my ID. He looks at it and then at my face. He nods and swipes the license through a magnetic stripe reader. “Room 5A.” He points to his left. “Down the hall and make a right.” He hands my ID back and waves to the person behind me.
I enter room 5A. Lynn had already walked me through the whole process, so I’m prepared. Still, the utter ordinariness of the office is striking. I am about to face life or death, and I’m sitting in a metal folding chair facing a metal desk with a computer and a phone. The name on the desk says “Samuel Esposito.” Mister Esposito, who looks to be in his thirties, is sitting behind the desk wearing a drab suit.
“Ms. Hollister. Nice to meet you. I’m Sam.” He stands to greet me and sits down only after I say hello and seat myself.
He proceeds to recite a script about the background of the Meyer Asteroid, the difficulty in dealing with the scope of such a catastrophe, and how if the government could relocate everybody then, my goodness, of course they would.
But they can’t, he notes, and he continues to go on about the origin of the Expatriation Lottery, why it’s not perfect but that it’s the best anyone could come up with.
He says all this with a natural cadence and a pleasant voice. He’s friendly, and I’m rather fond of how sympathetic he sounds as he outlines something that will kill hundreds of millions of people. But before he can continue with his well-worn script, I stop him.
“Now Sam, is it
really
the best the government could come up with?” I ask the question with my most pleasant politically-honed voice.
“Well, um, yes it is. We are a democratic country, and we wanted to give everyone an equal chance.”
“But you get to emigrate even if you don’t win the lottery when your other family members win. Is that fair?”
“Well, you see, Ms. Hollister, it would be a real tragedy to break apart families. Certainly you can understand that.”
I stop myself. There is nothing to gain here. I could get into an argument over how I was not able to marry my beloved partner of nearly a decade, how the ignorance of a bunch of zealots has me sitting in this very chair praying for my life, how even when marriage
was
made legal a bunch of selfish pricks looking to game the system destroyed our last chance.
Instead, I reply, “Oh, I understand the tragedy of breaking families apart all too well.”
Thrown a bit by my answer, Sam’s script comes out awkwardly at first, but he quickly recovers and proceeds to tell me that he is required to outline what happens both if you win or lose the lottery. He starts with grief counseling, which is optional but highly recommended. It will be available immediately after this meeting in a convenient room down the hall if I decide I need it. A new law put into place allows euthanasia, but you must first discuss that option with a grief counselor.
He then outlines what to expect if I win. Transportation will be via either boat or plane, and the destination will be a country determined by a second lottery. Immediate family members emigrate together but distant family are not guaranteed that they will be able to settle in the same country.
“Are you ready?” The question comes so suddenly that I am unprepared to reply. “Do you need more time?” Sam asks, sympathy in his voice.
“No. It’s okay. I’m ready.”
I wait for him to open an envelope or to check his screen or something, but he just folds his hands on his desk and speaks. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hollister. You have not been chosen to emigrate.”