An alert came like all the others, a neutral-toned vibration rang on my phone:
“Notice: Camp Westbridge will be closed today for scheduled maintenance. Expect delays. Thank you for your compliance.”
We were standing in line at the self-checkout when it went out. No one said anything as a few people checked their phones. The woman ahead of me mumbled, “Again?” and went back to scrolling.
Camp Westbridge is a few blocks from my sister’s old school. She used to walk past it every day before the walls went up. Back then, it was just a temporary processing center. Then a relocation zone. Then Camp Westbridge. Nobody calls it a camp out loud, since the sign says “Humanity Reserve.”
I asked the cashier if the maintenance meant another expansion, and she just shrugged. “Maybe. It’s been understaffed. They had that protest last week, remember?” I didn’t. Or maybe I did, and just forgot again. There are too many to keep track of.
Later that night, I saw a convoy of food trucks rolling past our building. Government contract logos on the sides. No music. No kids chasing after them like ice cream trucks. Just another quiet, routine operation. We’ve all been basically trained not to look too closely.
The evening news said the delay at Westbridge was due to infrastructure upgrades and regional stabilization. No mention of the blackout alarms. No mention of the screaming I thought I heard around 4:00 a.m.
We had shelf-stable pasta for dinner. It tasted bleak, like always.
Before bed, I checked the status of the camp again:
“Westbridge maintenance complete.”
The app let me send a message to my cousin in Block 7:
Have you eaten today?