The assignment landed on their desks with a heavy thud:
A full-term senior project on the Zones.
Everyone groaned—everyone except Oliver. He just stared at the paper a little too long, jaw tight, as if the topic itself were a weight he was used to carrying.
For Kalani, it was fascinating. She had grown up hearing polished, government-approved stories about the Zones, but she had never seen the real history. No one outside the borders ever did.
The Zones—or Zone One, as every state labeled their confined population districts—had existed for a hundred years, created after the collapse of the U.S. government and the assassination of the president. To "maintain order," the new governing council established the Zone One system as containment communities for people deemed high-risk:
— the poor
— the mentally unstable
— individuals statistically more likely to commit serious crimes
— and anyone with no permanent housing
Homelessness itself had been outlawed.
If you made under $20,000 a year and your family couldn't support you, you were assigned to Zone One.
If you finished a prison sentence but had nowhere to go, you were sent to Zone One.
Jobs inside the Zones paid only minimal wages, and the highest documented salary in Zone history—about $70,000, decades ago—was considered a miracle. Every city, every state, had a "Zone One," but the oldest, most infamous one of all was the Chicago Zone One, where Oliver was born.
And where he still lived.
---
Researching for this project was already difficult—because Zone residents weren't allowed access to most of the materials.
Kalani and Oliver walked together to the regional library, where special permissions were required to check out anything historical about the Zones. Kalani breezed through the permission desk with an ID scan and two signatures. Oliver… wasn't allowed past a certain hallway.
He didn't complain. He just stood to the side with his hands in his pockets like he'd done it a thousand times.
Kalani checked out seven books, stuffing them in her bag, and they decided to take them to the park. They sat at a picnic table under the turning autumn leaves, and Oliver began flipping one open cautiously—like he expected trouble for even touching it.
And trouble arrived.
A Zone One Day Officer—one of the Chicago branch's roaming patrol guards—approached with a stiff, squared stance.
"Receipt for the rentals," the officer demanded without greeting.
Oliver didn't look up. "I didn't rent them."
The officer's face sharpened instantly. "Of course you didn't."
Before Kalani could say anything, the officer stepped forward, grabbed Oliver's Zone armband, and yanked it harshly.
"You're under review," he snapped. "You're lucky you're not a permanent resident. Otherwise you'd be in jail."
Kalani shot up from the bench. "They're my books! I rented them! We need them for a class project—"
The officer ignored her entirely. His eyes stayed locked on Oliver like he was a problem waiting to happen.
"This is ridiculous!" she shouted.
Oliver gave her a small, sad look. "Nope," he said quietly. "That's my life."
The officer released him with one last shove at his armband and walked off.
Kalani sat down slowly, anger still burning in her face. "I don't get it. How do you just… live with that?"
"I don't get a choice."
She opened her notebook, frustrated and thoughtful all at once. "Then why don't we study at your place? I've never seen it before."
Oliver stiffened. "I'd rather you never do. You might get ideas."
"Maybe that's the point," Kalani whispered. "Maybe our project shouldn't be the same sanitized, rehearsed version everyone submits every year. Maybe we could show what Zone One is really like—from your eyes."
Oliver looked away for a long time, jaw flexing.
"…Fine. But only on weekends. Curfew for under-eighteens is eleven. We go early. We leave before then."
"Deal."
---
Saturday evening, Kalani dressed carefully—clean pressed pants, a soft sweater, and her best shoes. Not because she needed to impress anyone, but because she wanted to show respect to wherever she was going. She packed her notebook, the rented books, and stepped out of her room.
Her mother—the Governor of their state's Zone One—intercepted her in the hallway.
"Where are you going?" she asked, voice sharp as a pin.
"Out with Oliver," Kalani said, tightening her grip on her bag. "We're going on a date."
"A date?" Her mother's eyes widened. "Kalani, you're treading on thin waters."
"Maybe. But I'm going anyway."
Her mother called after her, but Kalani didn't stop.
She left the house, boarded the evening transit, and headed straight toward Chicago's Zone One—the original, the oldest, and now, finally, the place where she would see Oliver's world for herself.
Just as he lived it.