WHEREAS, new Dakotan emergency residents, lots 28, 37, and 42, have resulted in overcrowded Flyer Facilities and increased numbers of abodeless street residents (ASRs), and

WHEREAS, Senior Dakotan residents (defined as three generations of family having lived in-state only) have steady residential lives and abodes,

NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED THAT Senior Dakotan residents may voluntarily provide housing and a healthy and supportive living situation to one ASR for a monthly subsidy of CS$20,000. Senior Dakotan Residents who agree to share DNA traits to establish a familial relationship with a willing ASR will be provided an extra 20% monthly subsidy.

Twenty-year-old Able checked his account balance: nine-thousand Central States dollars. The hyperinflation of the past two months and the special assessment tax for the militia had taken their toll. Not only could he not make next month’s rent, but the amount left—even if he paid half in good faith—would mean two months with no dinners and nothing but tasteless vitabroth at the cooling center.

Able looked up from his tablet and was confronted by the dusty, elaborately framed, gold-leaf mirror his mother had left him. Was it something about his face that kept him from getting a boyfriend? His stupid, straight black hair that he cut himself? Or was it still a skin color thing? He never got looks or smiles on the street, maybe a grimace if someone thought he was a flyer. Even if he could afford entry to the queer meetups, he probably wouldn’t even get a look there. He had seven hundred hours to go as an apprentice before he made it to journeyman electrician, meaningat least eight months more of mornings of this drowning feeling.

But this new welfare program, this was a ticket out. He could stop the program in a year if it didn’t work. And maybe he could choose a good-looking guy, if not for himself, at least to attract some attention when they went out.

“Take Care of your Community,” the registration site read, dry and perfunctory like every other government message. The message capped a black-and-white photo of men and women, skin tones in a variety of greys, arm-over-neighbor’s-shoulder, beaming at the viewer. Tickled by the thought of friends he’d make, Able signed up and began swiping his way through the flyers. In contrast to the public service announcement, the candidates’ faces showed not even a glimmer of happiness.Able skipped Utah’s lot 28, knowing that the groundwater issues there would mean likely mean flyerswith kidney damage that would require any number of future rushes to the emergency room. It felt like it had taken ages to make hisselections, but within twenty minutes, he had reached his full allotment of potential ASRs: a Bengali woman from the Georgia coast who reminded him of his mother, an abandoned grandfather Baptist preacher withsoulful eyes, and his future boyfriend (he joked to himself), a former pre-med student with an Armenian last name, a thin beard, a curly mullet, and a grin full of teeth.

#

“The staging area is up that way,” an officer pointed to a set of stairs in the stadium. You can review compliant participants 37, 97A, and 268 there.”

Able hurried his way past the hockey rink inside, trying not to look at the flyer families of Lot 28, partitioned off by chalk marks on the temporary brown paper floor. He was distracted by the flash of a bright blue towel: two men towel-bathing three little kids, while a mother, bent over in an aluminum-and-lime-green-canvas garden chair, sobbed. Lot 28 was supposed to be the most fortunate flyer group, having left the Rhode Island coast only because of sea-level rise and before the Providence mafia had begun recruiting for a battle force.

In bouncing steps, Able walked down the ramp to the stadium’s former concessions area, where he noticed a makeshift, raised stage. Around it stood what must have been about twenty men and women, three out-of-place men in slacks and sport coats, the rest in jeans and sweatpants. Stage left, under a sign reading, “HousEase,” stood the batch of candidates, each one in light-blue chambray overalls. Able looked above him and noticed the sign reading “Housers.”

Towards the front of the candidates, Able recognized one of his choices, number 97A. Scanning the room, he moved next to a short woman who seemed to be comparing the same woman to the file information on her tablet.

“She’s one of my candidates too,” Able said to the woman, who merely looked up at him and turned away, shaking her head. Noticing a bulge at 97A’s waist, Able continued, “Do we get an extra subsidy for the baby?”

Sighing, the woman looked up at Able. Her hair was matted in clumps of dreadlocks, her skin pock-marked. Despite the disarray of her hair, she looked savvy, probably because of the purple-colored pant-suit that signaled she was part of the accountant staff of Great Lakes Mutual. The insurance firm had recently opened a financial processing facility in Bismark, citing the city’s stability and the river resource helpful to cool the server rooms come blistering summertime. “You’ll never get her,” the woman sneered, “and yes, there’s a subsidy.”

Trash talk here? They weren’t bidding, as far as he understood. Housers were given a score based on their education and career path, three-month average bank balance, home square footage, and zip code. He hadn’t expected a competition.

“The Houser with the highest score is given the right of first refusal,” the woman piped up. “I’ve already signed up for trait sharing, so I think I get extra points for that,” the eggplant of a woman offered. “I can’t have children, so it’s a way to keep my mother’s line going.”

With three bangs of a gavel offstage, the slow parade of HousEase began. The first flyer was a pasty man with a robust frame and a bush of wildly curly, hennaed hair.It was Able’s kind-eyed preacher. A last name was called, and a woman came up on stage with two children. She shook the man’s hand as her kids stood quietly, heads bowed, and the man professed his solemn vow to uphold the rules of the program.

“Nice to have a man around to fix things,” the accountant said, pointing her chin at the new match.

“Are you the official narrator?” Able glared at her. “Seems you should be up on stage then.”

The woman harrumphed and took a side-step to the right.

Able regretted his taunt; it wasn’t like him. It must have been his fear of leaving empty-handed.

Candidate 97A came on stage. Slouched, anxiously looking out at the small gathering.

“We have three contenders here,” the announcer said. “The Houser is Candidate Eldrow,” she continued. “Your score is highest, even without DNA-sharing. It turns out you are already second-cousins.”

Able looked toward his nemesis, and she glared at him. She wasn’t moving.

“It’s not me,” she announced.

The thump of someone tripping on the stairs to the stage caught their attention. A bursting kangaroo-pouch of a man in a white short-sleeve business shirt and black poly pants crossed toward the woman and reached forward to embrace her. She hesitated but then accepted his arms haltingly. They exited the stage holding hands.

“Candidate Khouresh?” His name was followed by the peal of feedback on the mic.

Able looked around until the repeat announcement reminded him that they were calling him.

“Participant 268 is yours.” Able looked at the stage and saw a long-haired contemporary sitting in a chair, a cane at his side. The blond announcer, clean-shaven and in a short-sleeved white shirt and thin black tie, continued to speak into the mic. “Before accepting, there is additional information that the candidate neglected to put in his file, but for which you will receive a sizeable subsidy, should you accept him.”

Able wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to get up on stage at this point and hesitated to step forward.

“Candidate 268 has indicated that he used to have a slight problem with heroin. But he assures us he is clean now.” The announcer turned to the young man and leaned forward to hear his whisper. “Two years clean,” the announcer said. The announcer poked at a tabled on the podium. “That results in an additional CS$3,000 per month, reducing over three years if he stays clean.”

Odd incentive, Able thought, but he didn’t care. 268 was even better looking than his picture. There was something gentle in his eyes. The man smiled demurely at Able and looked down at his lap. No, I’m smarter than this. I just need the money. If he said no, he’d have to wait another two weeks to the next draw. But those eyes. This can’t be good.

Able’s stomach reminded him why he was there. He pulled back his shoulders, raised his chin, and stepped towards the stage.

Jacob Lawrence, 120.9.14.286.9.33-ton 290.9.27 be at 153.9.28.110.8.19.255.9.29 evening 178.9.8 —an informer’s coded message , 1955                           

Anthony St. George is at work on "The Warring States," a collection of near-future stories about the fall and rise of North American nations. You can find him at https://anthonystgeorge.com/ and @asgriobhadh on Twitter.