They called themselves lovers of science, seekers of truth, and when they flooded habitats brimming with faux flora there was never a recorded death toll. I watched them in their formative years, on the playground, committing crimes between bites of peanut butter. They didn’t flinch as they churned an ecosystem behind plexiglass into chaos. I was the only one who seemed to notice when bodies fell to the bottom.

Years later, our own city flooded. It happened slowly. At first, those who ran from our granite walls to a world of hills and dirt were mocked as barbaric people who didn’t believe in the strength of our world. But slowly, as the water rose and our ankles got wet, we remembered that destruction did exist. In our playgrounds, in our nightmares, and now. We started running. Women were giving birth in the street, and nobody would stop to help. A kind soul would maybe guide them to a gutter, wrap a shawl around the mother, and then run on.

I thought I was lucky to know someone in town with a car. An old friend who I hadn’t had much to say to recently, until I needed a seat. We had stopped talking once she had started taking pills. Awkwardness had formed between us, but she agreed to give me a ride. I watched her operate the vehicle. Once, it had been a joy to sit in the passenger seat of her car. We would smoke cigarettes and bathe in gold. Now she suffered from long days of nothing. I thought I’d start friendly conversation as I told her about some of my scenes, where all things melted away. She said she understood, as she clicked her jaw again and again. I stared at how brittle her hair had become, and settled into listening to the dry wheels waste away to the dry asphalt beneath them, faster and more powerful than we could know. We only drove for about an hour before we learned how indifferent those tires were. She had always been careless, but this time, when I realized I had survived, I was very careful to leave her behind.

I bargained food for a ride with a woman driving a taxi. It’s funny how little you really need to speak in order to communicate. In panic everything is telepathic. We approached a large hotel where she told me she’d have to leave me. It was a chaotic place, people who had come to relax in luxury spas were slowly realizing they would die, and they wanted their money back. I didn’t look like I belonged there. My town was already half-flooded when I left it, and theirs was just on the onset when I arrived. My presence was viewed as an omen and they wanted me out. As if that would make a difference.

I found myself running through back corridors, pursued by a bellhop a little older than me and ten times fitter. My advantage was my slight figure. Where I could hop and slide, he could only wait and push. The railings and gates worked against me; they did not want me to continue to roof access. They pushed me back as he pushed me forward. I knew I had reached close to the top when the irons stopped closing in on me: no longer were they operated by some unseen hand, opposing all of my energy. I nearly fell to the ground when one swung open as easily as a handicap entrance at an amusement park. I was so surprised I called aloud, “They’ve stopped! They’ve stopped fighting against me!” The bellhop stopped and said, “Finally.” He abruptly took the door to his left and exited through secret concrete sidings of the building to the ornate carpet and humming ice machines of the 15th level.