The limo makes a sudden stop, and we lurch forward with a jolt against our seatbelts. A man stands up at the front of the car, apparently hithaving been hit just hard enough to knock him over. He puts his palms out towards us, eyes downcast, and mouths, “sorry”“Sorry,” as he hurries off the road.
"Sorry, Master Cyrus," the driver says to me, "I'll have you boys to the birthday party in just a few minutes. How old is your friend turning?"
"Fifteen," I say. I know he's trying to become buddies, but it's too forced, and I don't want to play along.
There's a parade of people walking and riding bikes home, still in work overalls. They stare at our tinted windows with curious expressions. They're slowing us down. Even though most citizens can't have vehicles, they should still know not to walk on the roads. My eyes drift from the pedestrians to the long, dirty horizon. It's a craggy line of spires and boxy buildings. Most of the houses are Frankenstein-ed together out of any material that could be dug up and recycled from the charred remains. Their roofs are old tin sheets that make noise like breaking glass whenever the rain falls.
But my house isn't run-down.