Wings in the Wasteland

A short story

WASTELANDS OF HOPE

1. The Name & the Dog

I have never gotten used to the way people say my name. The pause, the confusion, the double-take—it's always the same routine.
“My name’s Jesus,” I tell them.
They blink, or they snicker, or they stutter a quick apology.
“It’s pronounced Hey-sus,” I clarify. “Not the biblical figure.”

Maybe it’s funny for them, but for me, the name’s a reminder of the family who raised me—a pair of devout Catholic grandparents in a countryside long since swallowed by decay. Whenever someone smirks at it, I try to brush it off. There are bigger problems in the world.

Like the skytowns that blot out the sun over our battered cities.

Like the corporations that replaced everyone’s jobs with robots and AI.

Like the way my beloved dog, Skip, died in my arms because I couldn’t afford a vet.

Skip was a wiry mutt with off-white fur and a curious dark patch around his left eye. I’ve never met a more loyal companion. He followed me through some of the bleakest chapters of my life—my tour in the military, my soul-sucking marriage that fell apart, and the lonely months afterward when all I had was a rickety camper van and a guitar I was almost decent at playing.

But you never realize how fragile a life is until you’re trying to save it without the proper means. We were broke, rummaging for cheap meds in a junk-shop pharmacy. The closest thing to a real hospital wanted a staggering upfront fee. The antibiotics from a friend of a friend were half-powdered, probably expired. Skip’s health spiraled downward despite my best efforts. The day he passed, I was holding him in my lap, stroking his bony side. I remember every heave of his chest until his eyes finally went vacant.

Sometimes, I dream of him trotting around on strong legs again, tail wagging, free from all the poison in the air. When I wake, I feel a hollowness that never leaves. It’s that hollowness that kept reminding me: we live in a world where a dog can’t even get medicine, let alone a human being.

So, in a backhanded way, Skip’s death started my journey. Without him, I began paying attention to the cruelty around us. And eventually, I decided to run for President of the United States.

It sounds ridiculous. I know it does.

2. A World on the Edge

That was a decade of upheaval for me personally:

• Military service I joined right after high school, seeking purpose but finding mostly confusion.

• Marriage to my high-school sweetheart, a union that buckled under the weight of my war trauma.

• Divorce that felt like someone surgically removed my heart.

• Skip's death which felt worse than any heartbreak I’d known.

Between it all, I clung to music. I played bass for an electronic-alt band called Los Gallos of West. Our meager tours took us through deserted clubs and bombed-out amphitheaters across the Wastelands. When the fans danced or headbanged, it felt like they were trying to break free, if only for a night. We all were.

The world outside music was bleaker. AI replaced entire industries at breakneck speed, swallowing jobs. The richest among us fled to skytowns—levitating, high-tech cities shielded by climate-controlled domes. They had clean air, green parks, even artificial seas. Rumor said they could engineer their own rain. Meanwhile, on the ground, we inhaled a cocktail of pollutants thick enough to stain our lungs black. Nobody with power cared. The corporations that funded politicians made sure the system stayed tilted in their favor.

This injustice had become so ordinary that we forgot to call it evil. But after I lost Skip, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

3. Christian’s Ear

The first time I said, “I’m running for President,” I was slumped in a wobbling diner booth with my friend Christian across from me. We’d grown up together—he was the kind of person who always had spare time for my nonsense. His hair had gone gray at the temples, even though he wasn’t more than thirty, like stress had aged him prematurely.

He pushed aside a chipped coffee mug and stared. “You?”

“Me,” I said, feeling my heartbeat in my throat.

Christian raised an eyebrow. “Hey-sus, you can barely keep your own finances from collapsing, let alone fix a country. You know how big this is?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But no one else is stepping up in a way that matters. All these politicians—they talk, but they don’t do. Or they’re just shilling for corporations.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t, man,” he muttered, tossing a nervous glance around the near-empty diner. “I’m just saying you’re…holy crap, you are serious.”

“I am. Will you help me? I mean, if I do this, I’ll need a campaign manager, or at least a friend who can help me not go crazy.”

He let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “I guess I’ve followed you into worse.”

That was how it began: two broke guys in a cheap diner, forging a plan that sounded more like a prank on the American political system than a legitimate campaign.

4. Pins and Bars

We had zero funds and no big donors. My only mode of transport was a battered camper van I lovingly referred to as “Old Hustle.” Christian and I traveled to battered towns, handing out little pins that read “Pick Me and Be Free”—a slogan I’d scrawled in a drunken epiphany one night.

I got the pins made by the droid-artisans in a ramshackle settlement known as Machindro Town, where half-human, half-robot folks specialized in metalcraft. A grizzled machinist named Brim took my design—a small bird flying upwards—and produced these striking enamel pins. They shimmered like a distant sunrise. He said, “These are for a cause, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Trying to tear down the walls between us and the sky.”

He gave me a nod that was somewhere between pity and admiration. “Been waiting a long time for someone to do that.”

We started small: speaking at bars, flea markets, and disused school gyms. My “speeches” were part rant, part confession. Sometimes, I’d stand on a creaky chair, or on top of a pool table if the bar was rowdy. Christian would hush the crowd, and I’d clear my throat:

“Folks, look around. This country is divided between those who live in floating bubbles and those of us breathing toxic dust. We used to say Liberty and justice for all, but I don’t see it anymore. I see people like you and me, scraping by, paying for oxygen tanks when we need them, while the sky-people pay next to nothing, exiling themselves from the rest of the world.”

I’d hold up the bird pin. “This is a symbol, not a gimmick. If you really believe we can rise above the corruption, take one, wear it, and spread the word. Because I’ll fight for you. Not for profit, not for fame—just for the right to breathe free air.”

Some nights, the crowd was indifferent. Some nights, they erupted into applause. A few times, folks cried. Occasionally, drunk hecklers threw bottles. One time, a guy just screamed, “You’re an idiot!” from the back. But something fascinating happened: more often than not, people kept those pins. They wore them. Word got around. Soon, they were more recognizable than my own face.

5. Master June

Amid these dusty travels, I heard tales of a reclusive mentor figure named June—someone rumored to be wise in ways that bordered on mystical. She lived in an abandoned library near El Paso, or so people said.

The library was half-collapsed, devoured by sand dunes. On the front steps, time-worn pillars jutted out like broken teeth. Inside, the floor was littered with old books, many pages turned to dust. In the center of that dim ruin, I found her.

June was in her late fifties, short-cropped gray hair and skin tanned from the desert sun. She sat at a salvaged table, reading by the light of a solar lantern. She glanced up when my footsteps creaked on the broken tiles.

“You’re late,” she said, voice echoing softly.

“Late?” I replied, unsettled by how she seemed to expect me.

She raised a weathered eyebrow. “I heard you’d come eventually. Sit.”

I lowered myself onto a stool. The battered metal squeaked under my weight. She turned a page in her book, a thick volume about political revolutions. Then she asked, “Why do you want the presidency?”

“Because…” I tried to find the words. “Because I’m sick of watching people suffer while the elites hoard the resources.”

Her gaze felt like an x-ray. “That’s the what, not the why.”

I took a breath. Visions of Skip lying on the ground, eyes dull with pain, rushed into my mind. “I want to change the system that made my dog’s life disposable. That denies care to my neighbors. That siphons money upward and leaves the rest of us coughing.” My voice trembled. “I guess I just… want to help.”

She studied my face, then nodded. “If you truly seek to help, remember this: a leader’s greatest enemy is fear. Fear is what makes you lie, compromise, or run. It’s also what keeps your enemies in control.” She shut her book with a thump. “When fear knocks, will you open the door?”

“I won’t,” I promised, not fully comprehending the weight of her question.

As I turned to leave, she said something else: “You can’t save anyone if you live in hiding. Remember that.”

6. Lila’s Smile

Months of campaigning in the Wastelands left me drained. Christian and I collapsed in an abandoned motel one night, excited that the next day we had a speaking gig in a large church. Our funds were near zero. The pins were nearly gone. My throat was hoarse from giving speech after speech.

That’s when Lila appeared. She floated into my life at a dimly lit bar off a dusty highway near Phoenix. She had silver-dyed hair, an easy laugh, and a confidence that immediately drew eyes. We got talking over cheap whiskey, both complaining about the corporate stranglehold.

“I’ve seen your pins,” she said, pulling one from her jacket pocket. “I like what you stand for.”

It was like a tonic to my tired spirit. She insisted on buying me a couple drinks, praising my unwavering dedication. She claimed she’d been following my movements for months—said she even attended a rally in a half-collapsed school gym.

When her hand rested gently on my arm, I felt something spark—maybe optimism. After so long feeling exhausted and alone, it felt good to have someone new in my corner.

She started traveling with us, a new volunteer. She’d hand out pins at gatherings, talk passionately about the inequalities, and even chipped in for gas from her personal stash of credits. Christian was initially standoffish, but I was smitten by her directness, her intelligence.

One night, we found ourselves dancing under flickering neon in a dive bar, celebrating a successful speech where a record fifty people had shown up. The air smelled of stale beer and burnt wiring. She whispered in my ear: “I believe in you, Jesus.”

And I believed her.

7. The Betrayal

It happened about two weeks after Lila joined us. We were camped out by a dried-up riverbed, the sky overhead a haze of sickly orange. I drank more whiskey than I should have that night—at her encouragement. There was laughter, dancing to old music from my phone, and the feeling that maybe, for once, life wasn’t so grim.

In the morning, Christian woke me up with a frantic look. “Hey-sus, you gotta see this.” He shoved a battered tablet into my hands. The screen showed a news feed from SpaceFox—one of the mainstream corporate outlets. There was a clip of me from years ago, drunk, stumbling in front of their headquarters, apparently in protest. The anchor’s voice dripped with sarcasm: “And this is the man who wants to lead the country? A self-confessed alcoholic with a track record of public indecency.”

They had new footage, too—taken covertly. I saw myself in the bottom corner, slurring words to Lila about how I used to be “buddy-buddy” with whiskey. They framed it to sound like I was still dependent on the stuff.

I set the tablet down, my heart pounding. “Where the hell did they get this?”

Christian’s eyes flicked to Lila’s empty spot. Her sleeping bag was gone, and so was she. “She left before dawn,” he said. “No note, nothing.”

Realization crushed me. Everything—her kindness, her support—must have been an act. A dagger of betrayal twisted in my gut.

By midday, every major outlet picked up the story. They labeled me “Unfit,” “The Drunken Candidate,” “Danger to Democracy.” In a shaky Zoom press conference, I admitted I used to be a heavy drinker but had been sober for a long time. “I’m not that man anymore,” I said. “But yes, I messed up in the past. No question.”

Many people turned against me. Polls dropped. Venues canceled my appearances. But it wasn’t total collapse. Some folks—particularly those who struggled with addiction themselves—voiced their support. They saw me as flawed, but genuine. Others smelled a conspiracy, suspecting corporate sabotage.

Through it all, though, one question gnawed at me: Why did Lila do it? Blackmail? Greed? Had she been coerced? A pang in my chest told me I might never know.

8. The Threat Goes Boom

In time, the scandal faded a bit. Yet the corporate machine clearly viewed me as more than a sideshow. With each week, the “Pick Me and Be Free” pins traveled farther. Underground radio stations championed my message. Even in battered corners of the country, I’d see people wearing the bird pin.

That’s when the next blow came. One night, I was staying at my new girlfriend’s house—well, she was more of a friend who let me crash in her spare room. The night was quiet until an ear-splitting boom rattled the windows. I rushed outside to find my camper van—Old Hustle—engulfed in flames. Shards of twisted metal glowed red in the firelight.

Police arrived with casual nonchalance. They found a charred bottle a block away with a note stuffed inside. In shaky handwriting, it read: “Drop out, or go boom.” Underneath, a mocking signature: “The Elite.”

My hands shook, heart hammering. I pictured Skip’s face, pictured the dream of a better world. A wave of panic threatened to topple me. “They can kill me whenever,” I whispered to Christian that night, voice cracking. “What do I do?”

He looked at me, jaw set. “We’ve come too far to bail now. But I’m with you—whatever you decide.”

I didn’t have an answer. I fled into hiding for weeks, haunted by nightmares of black vans with tinted windows, bombs ticking under my bed, or some sniper’s scope.

9. Second Meeting with June

It was Christian who suggested I seek out June again. “She gave you good advice once, right?”

We tracked rumors that she’d left El Paso and moved to another abandoned library in New Mexico. It took weeks to find her. The new library was a labyrinth of twisted metal and collapsed roofs, with a single intact hall in the back.

I stumbled in, dust coating my boots, bandage around my left arm from a scuffle with a rogue droid earlier that week. June sat at a wooden desk in the hall, a single lantern lighting her surroundings. Pages rustled in a dry wind.

“You’re back,” she said without looking up.

“They blew up my van,” I blurted. “Said I’d go boom if I don’t drop out.”

June set her book aside. “And you’re afraid.”

My mouth felt parched. “I—I don’t want to die. But if I give up, I’m betraying everyone who wears my pin. Everyone who believed.”

Her expression softened. “Fear is the shadow that kills the brightest dreams. What do you think they’re counting on?”

“That I’ll be too scared to go on.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes glimmered with understanding. “If you run, they win. If you stay, you might still lose. But that choice is yours. Your convictions are your shield.”

She rose from her seat and picked up a small, battered copy of some old poetry, pressing it into my hands. “Words are powerful. Let them guide you when you feel you have nothing else.”

I thanked her—though it felt insufficient—and left. On the long drive back to our hidden safehouse, I flipped through the poetry. One line stuck with me: “We do not yield to storms. We only bend and sway, rising again when the wind calms.”

10. The Movement Grows

I made my choice. I wouldn’t back down.

Word spread of the bombing. Instead of scaring people, it outraged them. Underground networks rallied around my campaign with renewed fervor. I started getting more invitations to speak—this time from big enclaves that once dismissed me. Christian and a handful of other volunteers formed a makeshift security team.

Waving the bird pins, supporters came out in droves, from broken-down suburbs to decimated farmland. They brought stories of lost wages, denied medical treatments, children who coughed up black phlegm from the toxic air. The more I listened, the more determined I became.

Hector, a single father of two from Arizona, told me how his elder daughter had an infection that required specialized medication. The cost was astronomical. “They told me to go to the skytown pharmacy. But you can’t even get in without a pass,” he said bitterly. “Now we’re rationing her antibiotics, hoping it’s enough.”

Amara, a seventy-year-old woman from the Midwest, explained how her farmland was seized by an AI-driven corporate entity that used drones to plant genetically modified crops, ignoring the pollution inflicted on nearby communities. “They said it’s progress. But the local streams got contaminated, my husband’s cancer returned, and we can’t even sue.”

In each new place, I’d grab a mic, face the crowd, and let their stories guide my speech. “We deserve clean air, clean water, and a government that cares,” I’d say. “I’m not perfect; I’ve made mistakes. But I’ll never side with those who treat human life as disposable.”

The response was electrifying. People clung to the hope of a candidate who wasn’t shaped by corporate money.

11. Confrontation on the Highway

As the election drew closer, tensions soared. Occasionally, we found ourselves tailed by sleek black SUVs with tinted windows—no license plates. Christian insisted we travel in caravans of supporters.

One evening, after a rousing rally in Oklahoma, about six vehicles escorted me on a highway battered by potholes and collapsed overpasses. The moon hung low, turning the horizon a muddy yellow.

That’s when headlights flared behind us. The black SUVs roared up, trying to force us off the road. We swerved violently, dust and debris flying. Christian shouted over the radio, “Everyone, stay calm. Defensive maneuvers.”

But there was no outrunning them. Three SUVs blocked our front, two behind us. Men in tactical gear jumped out, guns glinting under the moonlight. A hush fell over our caravan.

One of them barked, “Hands up! Get out of the vehicles!”

I felt my heart hammering in my ears. Fear threatened to root me in place. A memory of June’s words flickered: “A leader’s greatest enemy is fear.”

Our volunteers refused to cower. A couple returned fire. The night lit with muzzle flashes and the acrid smell of gunpowder. My breath caught in my throat. We dove behind car doors. Bullets whizzed by, shattering windows, sparking off metal.

My mind spun. This is it. This is how I die.

But out of nowhere, a thunderous roar of engines announced a group of local bikers—men and women I had spoken to at a bar earlier—charging in. They flanked the SUVs, lobbing makeshift Molotovs. The black-clad attackers scrambled into their vehicles and peeled away, tires squealing.

When the last SUV vanished over a hill, I found myself on the ground, still trembling. No serious injuries among my supporters, but a bullet had grazed my arm. Blood trickled down to my fingertips, and my head spun from the shock. Christian helped me to my feet.

“Hey-sus, you okay?” he asked, voice quivering.

I exhaled shakily, adrenaline coursing through me. “I think so.”

One of the bikers, an older man with a braided beard, slapped my shoulder. “Told ya we had your back,” he growled, eyes wild with post-battle energy. “We’re not letting them snuff your light.”

12. The Road to Election Day

The ambush hammered home how far the elites would go to preserve their power. But it also cemented my supporters’ resolve. We pressed on, though now I had a permanent bodyguard crew—volunteers who’d seen enough injustice and wanted to shield the movement at any cost.

As election day loomed, polls showed me creeping up in popularity. The mainstream media still mocked me as “The Pin Man,” but grassroots chatter suggested something historic was brewing.

I remember the final week as a blur of rallies, interviews on underground stations, and last-ditch efforts by corporate media to paint me as a liability. My biggest concern was that I’d get assassinated before the ballots were cast. But fear no longer paralyzed me—it spurred me onward, a testament to June’s teaching.

13. The Darkest Night

Three days before the vote, I was finishing a speech in a battered park near the Mississippi—what used to be St. Louis. The iconic Arch had collapsed years ago, leaving only twisted steel. Our “stage” was a simple platform of wooden crates. A solar-powered lamp was our spotlight.

Exhausted, I stumbled into a volunteer’s truck afterward, Christian beside me. My side throbbed from the earlier scrape. My head pounded from stress. We were halfway to a safehouse when a rumbling helicopter soared overhead, shining blinding lights on us. Christian sped up, weaving through abandoned side streets until we lost them in the labyrinth of concrete ruins.

At the safehouse—a dingy basement below a condemned office building—I finally let the stress crack my composure. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Christian lit a small lantern. “Hey-sus,” he murmured, “you’re scaring me.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I said, burying my head in my hands. “It’s just, any day, it could be over.”

He crouched next to me. “You wanted to run for President to help people, right? To give them a voice?”

I nodded, tears pricking my eyes.

“Then that’s bigger than your fear,” he continued. “You’re not alone, man. Look at how many have rallied behind you.”

I swallowed hard. “What if I fail them?”

“You won’t,” Christian said, voice steady. “Because you won’t give up. That’s all that matters right now.”

We stayed like that for a long time, just breathing in the stale air, reminding each other that the fight was not ours alone anymore.

14. Election Day

The day of the election arrived, overshadowed by cynicism from mainstream outlets that predicted a landslide for the establishment. People cast ballots in battered schools, in makeshift booths erected outside old grocery stores, in library ruins like the ones June inhabited. Some places used old paper ballots—machines had been sabotaged or seized by corporate-run “security.”

By dusk, exit polls in the Wastelands hinted at an upset. My name was on many tongues. On alternative networks, they played footage of my speeches on loop. The “Pick Me and Be Free” pins glistened on jackets across states.

At a safehouse we dubbed “HQ,” we crowded around a flickering TV that switched between channels. The corporate channels refused to credit my campaign, focusing on other big-name candidates. But smaller, independent streams began showing me winning counties that had never turned out to vote before.

As midnight approached, I paced the room, nails bitten to stubs. A hush fell whenever the TV updated with new states. Finally, a renegade YouTube-like channel with some battered green screen declared, “We’re calling it. In an unprecedented upset, the Pin Man has captured enough electoral votes. Jesus—pronounced ‘Hey-sus’—is the next President of the United States.”

An odd silence gripped the room. Then cheers burst forth, echoing off the concrete walls. People laughed, cried, embraced each other. Someone popped open a stolen bottle of champagne. Christian gripped my shoulders, tears welling in his eyes.

“You did it,” he choked out. “We did it.”

But me? I felt numb, like the gravity of this victory hadn’t fully hit me. All I could picture was the final time Skip licked my hand before drifting away. It felt like the world had turned upside down.

15. Shadows of the Future

The weeks that followed were a blur of legal challenges, corporate lawsuits, and frantic backdoor dealings. Officials tried to invalidate the election results; corporate lawyers claimed the votes were hacked or tampered with. Yet public outcry rose to deafening levels, and eventually, they had no choice but to concede.

Inauguration Day arrived under a sky heavy with smog. The National Mall was unrecognizable—cracked ground, weeds, abandoned scaffolding. But thousands upon thousands of people gathered, defying the choking atmosphere, wearing their bird pins with pride.

The makeshift stage stood in front of the crumbling Capitol building. I stepped up, a second-hand suit pressed by a volunteer tailor. A bulletproof barrier glinted, courtesy of Christian’s insistence. The crowd’s roar was unlike anything I’d ever heard. I spotted weathered faces of war veterans, families, half-robot folks from Machindro Town, even some skytown defectors. My breath caught.

I glanced at the battered piece of paper in my hands—my speech. It felt inadequate for the moment. Instead, I let it fall to the podium and spoke from the heart.

“My fellow Americans,” I began, voice shaking through the crackling speakers. “I stand here, not because I have billions in backing, but because you said, ‘No more.’ You refused to accept that a handful of elites in shining skytowns could decide who lives and who dies.

“I’m not a polished politician. I’m a man who’s known heartbreak, betrayal, and fear. I’ve made mistakes. But so have we all. Today, I promise: every step I take, every bill I propose, will be for you—for clean air, for healthcare that doesn’t bankrupt you, for an economy that doesn’t abandon the people who built this country.”

A hush blanketed the crowd as if the very air listened.

I took a breath, recalling June’s words: A leader’s greatest enemy is fear. “They threatened me with bombs, blackmail, bullets. I’ve seen firsthand how they cling to power. But guess what? We’re here anyway. Because a movement that rises from the ground—like the seeds pushing up through cracked concrete—cannot be silenced by fear.”

Thunderous applause rattled the stage. Some cried openly. Others clutched each other, beaming. Cameras, streaming devices, and solar-powered drones captured the moment.

I couldn’t help it—my thoughts drifted to Skip, imagining him wagging his tail in approval. That longing and sadness mixed with a surge of hope so strong, I nearly buckled.

16. Aftermath: The Real Fight Begins

Despite the cheers and tears, I felt a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Winning an election wouldn’t magically topple the corporate machine. It was only the first step. I had to face down lobbyists, political elites, and sky-city barons who resented a “nobody” stepping into the highest office.

True to form, they tried to block my proposals at every turn. My push for the “Free Air Act”—which aimed to set up public oxygen stations and ban corporate pollution practices—became a legal battlefield. The healthcare reform bill I championed was met with a relentless smear campaign: “Socialist,” they called it. “Naive,” they said.

But the difference now was that millions of people who once felt powerless were no longer silent. Protests erupted whenever the old guard resisted too blatantly. Strikes shut down AI-operated factories. Hackers took corporate servers offline in the name of “Pin Man’s Dream.”

There were days I felt crushed under the enormity of it all. Nights I spent at my desk in the severely damaged White House—now half a building, with much of the staff moved to an underground command center—wondering if any real progress was possible.

In those moments, I’d remember June’s calm gaze, her unwavering insistence that conviction could outlast fear. Christian would remind me, “We fought for this. We can’t back down.” I’d remember the volunteers who’d put their lives on the line to get me here. And I’d remember Skip, how his last breath was stolen by a broken system.

“Pick Me and Be Free” was no longer just a slogan on a pin. It was an evolving tapestry of grassroots energy, a promise that real people had pinned their hopes on.

17. Lila, One Last Time

Months into my presidency, there was an unmarked letter delivered to my office. It contained a single photograph of Lila, smiling in a lavish skytown suite—glass walls overlooking pristine gardens. On the back, someone had scrawled: She sold you out to buy her way up.

I stared at the photo for a long while, a whirlwind of anger, sadness, and pity tightening my chest. So she had secured a place in the sky. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. That was her price.

For a long moment, I was furious at her betrayal. Then, a flicker of empathy surfaced: how hopeless must she have felt to trade the cause for a ticket to comfort? In a world that offered so few ways to “make it,” who am I to judge?

I locked the photo away in my desk. Couldn’t bring myself to destroy it, nor put it on display. Maybe I just needed the reminder that not everyone’s path to survival looks the same.

18. June’s Legacy

On a rare day off, I finally returned to that old library in New Mexico, wanting to thank June and see how she fared. But the library was empty, half-collapsed from a recent sandstorm. Broken beams protruded from mounds of debris. I looked for her among the scattered books, anxiety gnawing at me.

In one corner, I found a dusty envelope addressed simply to “Hey-sus.” Inside was a page torn from a journal:

“When your convictions eclipse your fear, no storm can extinguish your light. Lead wisely, and do not forget the voices that brought you here.”

No signature, but I knew it was from her. I spent an hour searching the rubble, calling her name, but she was gone. I hoped she’d found another refuge. Or maybe she decided her part in this story was finished.

19. The Price of Hope

My presidency would never be easy. It began in chaos and threatened to stay that way. Whenever I tried to curb corporate power, the “Elite” fired back with lawsuits, media propaganda, and sabotage. Yet each victory—no matter how small—felt monumental. We set up a pilot program for free medical clinics. We forced a few corporations to pay hefty fines for polluting water supplies. We even orchestrated a partial shut-down of some sky-cities’ advantage by taxing them enough to invest back into ground-level infrastructure.

Still, people died in the Wastelands every day from preventable causes. I’d read daily reports of how limited resources were. I’d speak to families who lost loved ones on waitlists. Each time, my chest constricted with guilt. Could I have done more, sooner?

Christian remained by my side, forging policy with an iron will. In the back of my mind, I remembered how he’d once joked about me not even being able to keep a houseplant alive. Now we were trying to nurture an entire country back from the brink.

And then there was me—haunted by nightmares of bombs, firefights, and Lila’s face. Sometimes I woke up in a cold sweat, calling Skip’s name. My staff doctors suggested therapy. I quietly saw a counselor, which helped me process both my war trauma and the new burdens of leadership.

20. Epilogue: A Blue Sky, Maybe

Change comes slowly, like a battered seed pushing through toxic soil. But seeds can sprout in the harshest conditions. Over the years, there were glimpses of progress. In certain pockets of the country, the air got marginally cleaner. Some ex-skytown residents willingly descended to help rebuild communities, sickened by the injustices they’d once turned a blind eye to.

I’d walk among the newly planted trees in the National Mall—thin, scraggly things, but alive. Sometimes, I’d spot little flocks of birds overhead. It was enough to make me wonder if, one day, the smog would lift, revealing a true azure sky.

Still, the fight was never over. The Elite still had their wealth, their influence, their cunning. The difference now was that people believed they had a voice—because they did. If I were ever assassinated or removed, that voice wouldn’t vanish; the seeds had scattered too broadly to be silenced.

On certain evenings, after a grueling day of political wrestling, I’d sit on the chipped steps outside the half-rebuilt White House, gazing at the horizon. I’d imagine Skip bounding up the lawn, wagging his tail, free of pain. I’d close my eyes and breathe in, wishing I could share this improbable moment with him—this reality where I, Jesus (Hey-sus), had become president through sheer grit and the desperate hope of a nation.

And even though it was never simple—and probably never would be—I felt a flicker of peace. The kind that comes from standing against a brutal storm, refusing to kneel. The kind that says, We might not have a perfect future yet, but at least we’re no longer giving in to fear.

That flicker, I suspect, is what real freedom feels like—a fragile but persistent flame in the wastelands of hope.