Humidity strangled the air as Paige stepped out into the damp morning. Shades of gray coated the sky as she observed the tall skinny pines, their tired limbs droopy and weighed down by gathering crows. Guess the sun called in sick, she thought, tossing her sack lunch onto the backseat. Letting the engine warm before pulling out of the drive, she sipped her coffee and checked the time, impressed by her early bird status.

The windshield wipers screeched across the glass as Paige relaxed into her morning commute. Enjoying another hot sip of coffee, she reached over and inserted a CD featuring her all-time favorite band. CD’s were obsolete, forgotten relics worthy of a museum, much like her car, as well as her favorite band Limbo Diver. She imagined herself an old soul belonging to that same museum, but Paige wasn’t alone in her taste for the outdated. From music to television to fashion, pop culture fell into a slump with the younger generation going retro more often than not. Most people were forced to old school it when the money train derailed and consumerism tanked, and if anything new was produced, no one bought it. The entertainment industry suffered the pain of a world in turmoil, due in part to The Big One that inevitably hit California. The City of Angels sat in ruins two years after the mega-quake struck, but Hollywood didn’t die, it relocated. Low budget films rarely saw the light of day, and the five or so big productions released each year weren’t worth the waste of money. Cable, satellite and local channels fed viewers reruns and reality shows, while news stations told them what they already knew or what they didn’t really need to know.

Paige turned up the stereo and sped toward the freeway entrance ramp heading southbound to the Museum District. Fellow Houstonians transformed into high-speed weapons as she disappeared into the chaotic free-for-all of morning traffic. Texas claimed to be The Drive Friendly State but Paige thought that perhaps the slogan the drive deadly state would be more appropriate; however, the widely known slogan, Don’t Mess with Texas, summed it up in a pinch. Newer models of electric cars zoomed past as her forgotten relic neared 50mph. I think I can, I think I can, played on a loop in her head until she settled into a safe niche in the middle lane. Still in the green, she thought, and tried to ignore the broken scenery she passed along the way.

The current generation owned the privilege of living after oil’s heyday drew to a close, a predictable catastrophe causing prices to double overnight. Gas wasn’t a sure bet these days and most pumps sat abandoned and covered with yellow plastic bags, and if they weren’t, a person was lucky to fill their tanks with whatever fumes remained. Deliveries came once a month and lines of cars stretched for miles on days when fuel trucks, like the Calvary, arrived, but the squeaky wheel kept turning despite overcrowding, rolling blackouts, food rationing and mandatory water restrictions.

Paige wished she’d been born decades earlier before Old Glory traded her homemade apple pie for processed food in a tin can. She envied previous generations who enjoyed a more independent society, one where people weren’t ruled by appointed babysitters. Twenty years ago during the height of the oil-crisis, America experienced a time of major transition when the North American Region (NAR) formed. The NAR combined The United States with Mexico and Canada, selecting a Council of Six to govern the entire area; the fifty states divided into six regions. It was the consolidation of power and the end of our freedom, her father once said, and Paige believed him. States were considered wholly ceremonial, leftover remnants of the Old Republic. The real power rested with the controllers of population centers, which were the main hub for any kind of traffic be it air, land, water or cyber. Officials appointed by the Council of Six oversaw the centers and replaced the need for local government, keeping tabs on the distribution of food, water and gas—the only things that mattered. Houston, the anointed population center for the Gulf Coast Region, was in good shape compared to most major cities. Rural communities; however, where farmers and country folk took care of their own with wells and gardens, faced ongoing attacks by The Environmental Redistribution Agency (ERA), lovingly referred to by citizens as The Green Police. One of the many arms formed by The Council of Six, the ERA’s sole purpose was ordering widespread road closures, seizing private land and code enforcement. Permanently cut off from the general population, small country towns watched gas stations, grocery stores and local businesses shut down as people migrated en masse to population centers where resources were available.

Paige arrived at the West Lot checkpoint where Civilian Military Counterpart (CMC) Officers systematically covered every inch of her car, a process that took about five minutes. She pulled into a parking space and began her mile-long hike towards the central quad with about five minutes left to spare. I’m actually going to make it on time, she thought, power-walking closer to her destination. Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting jeans, black canvas sneakers and a black long-sleeved shirt, Paige opted for comfort over fashion. A camouflaged self portrait of Andy Warhol decorated the front of her shirt with his famous slogan, your fifteen minutes are up, printed underneath. She considered it one of her favorites, purchased from the Museum of Fine Arts where she attended the Warhol exhibit with her dad.

Her clothes dampened by the humid air, Paige joined the drones of over-privileged students milling around the grassy quad. Over-privileged, she thought, because no one could afford college these days unless they came from wealthy families. It was nothing new according to her mother, college had always been expensive, but the majority of young people spent their high school years prepping for a lifetime of manual labor. The current trend promoted finding a green job with The Council. Green jobs sprouted up everywhere after The Council took over, but the cheap labor left workers struggling to earn an income above poverty. With oil reserves dwindling, alternative energy sources slowly became more available and affordable, but the process of converting the old way of life into a clean green consuming machine moved at a snail’s pace. New building codes were in order for every structure (private or business) to install solar paneling, leaving Paige’s university under constant construction. With the Go Green Regime in full swing, Paige remained unclear about green jobs but figured installing solar shingles for a living was a no go. Tragedy funded her college career. A head-on collision took the lives of both her parents when she was a baby, and with no known next of kin, Allison and Justin Holland adopted her soon after the accident. Two months ago on her eighteenth birthday, her long-awaited inheritance paid out.

The constant noise from construction–the drilling, hammering and more hammering–grated on her nerves, but Paige enjoyed the atmosphere nonetheless. Under damp and overcast weather, a mystical ambience enveloped the university. She followed the cobblestone ground as it snaked through high archways and ivy-covered walls, observing that it was, by far, the best bit of architecture Houston had to offer. Neo-Byzantine if I remember correctly, she thought, secretly contemplating whether or not to change her major to art. Instead, Paige chose journalism with a minor in political science, a decision that pleased her father but offered few options for a career. No need for journalists these days. She arrived on the south side of campus out of breath and (much like Alice’s white rabbit) with no time left to spare. Shuffling down the long halls of the maze-like building, she trailed behind a man with a thick dirty-blonde ponytail bunched together with a black hair tie. Sporting a yellow wool blazer with faded blue jeans, he totted a worn leather book bag and walked faster than Paige the Power-Walker herself. She also noted his black canvas sneakers as he turned the corner into her classroom.