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?”

“Yes.” The sadness in my mom’s voice breaks my heart. Losing any moment of joy in the midst of such darkness is almost too much to consider.

“So unmarried people are screwed.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

Anger bubbles over. “But what about Lynn and me? We weren’t trying to game the system! We spent

years

waiting for marriage to be legal, and now just days away from our wedding it is illegal again.” The unfairness is overwhelming. I need to talk to Lynn.

“I know, dear. If there’s anything—”

“I have to go.” I hang up, dial Lynn, and explain what’s happening. Lynn is quiet on the other end of the line. I cling to the absurd hope that she will somehow make things better.

“I’ll be right home,” she says. I wait, trying to not dwell on the worst.

She arrives minutes later and tosses her bag on the floor. She gives me a cursory hug and starts pacing while I sit down. Her nervousness while I recline on the couch is a stark reversal of our normal roles. Still, she is all business, and I find it comforting. If there is a solution here, she will find it.

She stops and faces me. “Okay, one.” She holds up a finger. “We still could both win the lottery.” I nod. “Two.” She holds up another finger. “We could still be flown out by Star News.” I nod again. “And three.” She holds up the finger and then drops it into a fist as she continues, “We will still be able to get married when the lottery is over, right?”

I had not thought of that. Once the lottery is over, there is no need to protect the system, and marriages could resume. “I guess…”

There are too many unknowns for me to think anything other than we are still fucked, but before I can say it Lynn replies, “This really doesn’t change anything!”

• • • •

Lynn is driving us to the Expatriation Office, and the streets are a mess. The military is keeping order, but cars are pushed to the side of the road and abandoned where they broke down. Traffic accidents lead to gunplay. The roads to downtown Austin are a war zone.

There’s a delay when a pair of bucketlisters have their friends block off Interstate 35 for a drag race. We wait for the military police to arrive or for the race to finish, whichever comes first. I sympathize with the increasing number of bucketlisters sprouting up across the country. They are at least being proactive about their impending doom, but this pair is now threatening Lynn’s appointment, and my sympathy is in short supply. “Fuckers,” I mutter. We gave ourselves two hours for a drive that three months earlier would have taken thirty minutes, and now we’ll need every second.