The Journey Prize Stories 22 by Various

the first flight home to Sarah, hang up this whole sordid writing thing once and for all.
    â€œThe publisher and your agent have been trying to reach you.”
    â€œI lost my phone,” I lie. I tossed it in the Chicago River after my lawyer emailed me the tabloid show’s incriminating spot: the grainy security footage of Sibby and me entering my hotel together, halfway round the world, and the book critic calling my new novel a “pallid imitation of
Lolita
.” All timed to broadcast around the globe and just in time for Publicity.
    â€œThe interview requests doubled overnight. They want to set you up with a PR coach.”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary.” I don’t have the stamina or the patience to practise for the onslaught.
    â€œIt’s almost over. Two more sleeps.” She gives me a conspiratorial we’re-in-this-thing-together grin. But then, handlers are paid to be onside. How did she fall into this damn PR game anyway?
    The city rears up and I want to gasp at the sheer volume of skyscrapers. Publicity: Population 7,846,801 and growing by the nanosecond. Even the mountains are jam-packed right to the top with housing, save for the jagged peaks.
    â€œWhat have they done to the mountains?” The hysteria in my tone startles the onboard computer.
    â€œDo you need assistance, Lana?” asks the voice.
    â€œNo. Sleep,” she says to the dashboard, then to me, “It happened so fast, starting with the 2/13 terrorist attacks in LA and New York during the Olympics. We were supposed to get hit too, but the city was crawling with security.”
    â€œI remember the news clips of cruise ships full of rent-a-cops.”
    â€œYeah, they’re still here.”
    â€œThe ships or the cops?”
    â€œBoth. Together. A lot of people stayed on after the airports and borders reopened, and more have been pouring in ever since the Saudi-American war started. We needed somewhere to put everyone, including all those actors and athletes that refuse to work anywhere else. It’s never too hot here, and other than the odd flash flood, it doesn’t rain much anymore.”
    It rained non-stop those first days Sarah and I were here. Sometimes we couldn’t even see the houses across the street,and the sound of foghorns was the only reminder that there were other people around.
    â€œWho is this Lucky Woods character on all of the billboards and bus stops?”
    â€œShe’s a local real-estate tycoon. Owns The One & Only development company. She’ll probably be our mayor next year.”
    â€œAt least she’s prettier than Stalin.”
    â€œShe’s had a lot of cosmetic surgery.” Lana grins with her eyes this time, and it’s such a lovely sight that I can’t resist smiling back.
    She stops at a toll bridge and flashes a laminated card. “They restrict downtown car traffic now.” The bridge feeds into a tall canyon of skyscrapers that frames those slashed-up mountains, but she turns, loops under the bridge, and comes up alongside the bay and a recreational highway, with its bike, rollerblade, and walking lanes in heavy use. Where did the old seawall go, with its crumbly stairs disappearing under the waterline? The logs are still there, lined up for the sunbathers. The water looks so cool and inviting.
    â€œCan you still swim in there?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œNobody’s swimming.”
    â€œThere’s an indoor pool at your hotel.”
    I don’t want a pool. I want to swim in that bay, where I asked Sarah to marry me and she said yes, put her cool arms around my neck and kissed me with her hot mouth.
    The pastel Miami-style apartments still line the beachside avenue, but are mixed with taller, sleek glass towers. Many ofthe balconies are packed with people, drinking cocktails, looking out at the water and the impending sunset, as if in theatre boxes watching a performance. Parked on the bay are dozens