Two Years Later

“It’s 2082 and I do believe I’ve run out of postcards. That was the last story.” I say to my daughter, almost ten years old. “No more food… no more postcards… what have we got to live for?” she says, pessimism flowing through her veins. “Don’t think like that! Don’t! You have hope to live for! Hope that one day we will strike gold and find some sort of water reserve! Hope that one day we’ll all be better!” I yell too loudly and she starts to cry. I sigh. Later, we walk into the cafeteria. I see a man arguing with a cafeteria lady. He’s holding a gun to her head, demanding food.