Empty Lot

At the edge of the city, there was a huge empty space. The towering homes and factories ended abruptly where the soil became too loose for easy building, and there was only pavement and cars. 

Terry felt exposed. Inside the city, the familiar walls held the streets tight. They kept him safe. He was exposed after he stepped over the threshold. The shifting mass of cars was not comforting. The throngs of people shouting didn’t help. He knew some people called it claustrophobic. He couldn’t understand that. 

He paid no regard for cars and other pedestrians moving across his path. He walked slowly, and did not even look. It was hard to look from under his hat. That was the way here. No one wanted to run him over. 

He tapped on the window of a car, and the door opened. He got in. He said something, the name of a place. He forgot the name as soon as it left his mouth. He gave the driver some money. 

A week later, they started looking for him. 

---

Terry woke up violently with a fever. It was hot in the room. It was always hot, but he felt cold. A fan spun over him. He stared at it, and tried to count his breaths. After a few minutes, they slowed down. He pulled his arms out of his sheets, and reached for the phone on his bed stand. It’s screen blinded him. He didn’t need to see. 

“Hello?” said his therapist. The man was groggy. 

“I had the dream again.” he said. 

“Ah.” came the response. 

“I can come in the morning if...” Terry began, but he was cut off. 

“No, I’m the one who told you to call me if it happened.” said the voice inside his phone. “Tell me about it.” 

“It was just like before.” said Terry. 

“Do you remember what we talked about?” asked his doctor, sounding more alert.

“Yes.” said Terry. “Sorry.” 

“Take your time.” said the therapist. 

After a long pause, Terry began. “In the dream, I’m in the rubble of the embassy. The military police are shooting at me, but the whole thing has been flattened, so I have to run. I run through the streets, but no matter how fast I run, they’re always right behind the last turn, almost caught up to me. Eventually, I reach the edge of the city. There are no buildings to hide me, and they find me. They shoot me, I die, and then I wake up.” 

“That’s a hard dream.” said the therapist. 

“The worst part isn’t dieing.” said Terry. “It’s when I get to the edge of the city, and there’s nowhere to hide.”

“But that’s not how it happened, right?” asked the therapist.

Terry sighed. “No, obviously I’m not dead.” 

“I’m sorry, I know I’m asking you to say the obvious.” said the Therapist. “We can do something else.” 

“No.” said Terry. “It helps.” 

The therapist pressed on. “Could something like that happen again?” 

“No.” said Terry, emphatically. 

“Why not?” 

“Because they’re gone.” said Terry. “We won.” 

---

Seven years later, Terry got out of a car in the same plaza. He didn’t have a hat anymore. He wasn’t hiding, but he still didn’t feel safe. There were more carts and bicycles now, and many more scooters. There was not enough gas for the cars. It was too empty. 

Yellow tape fluttered in the wind.  One of the buildings at the edge of the city had collapsed. The sight of the streets flanked by walls still felt safer to him than the throng. People and vehicles pressed in around him as the driver he’d hired to bring him back rolled away. Flags fluttered where the buildings hadn’t collapsed. His flag. The flag of independence. 

He wanted desperately to walk in those safe streets, so close. The crowd recognized him though. He put on a brave face. This was his reward. 

---

“Terry!” The shout was too loud of the reserved office lobby. It didn’t disturb the workers. The street outside was louder. George’s face showed more shock than joy. He was smiling, though. 

“It’s been too long.” said Terry. He approached George, who was standing with a woman. 

“Ian.” she introduced herself with an amused smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet the hero.”  Terry waved that away with his unoccupied hand. 

“I’m not a hero.” he said. “Just a counselor advisor from the central government.” 

George clapped him on the shoulder joylessly. “The face that we have a central government to complain about is what makes you a hero.” 

“It’s better than the occupation.” said Ian. 

After a half pause, George turned slightly and cocked his head. “Whose office are you attached to.” 

“Councilor Ian.” said Terry, nodding to Ian. He reached out, and handed her his brief case. 

“Yes.” said Ian. “I thought so.” She took the case from him. 

George sighed. “Yes I suppose they would put you together.”

“We should talk.” said Ian. She smiled, but not with her eyes. “If you’ll excuse us George.” she lead Terry to her office. 

---

“Terry, we are not communists.” The room could see the rebuke’s sting on Terry’s face. 

“Maybe we should...” he muttered, but he forced himself to trail off. George shot his eyes at him without moving his face. 

“What was that?” asked the director. 

“I’m not proposing anything communistic.” Said Terry. He bowed his head in apology. He wasn’t sorry. “Only that we take city planning seriously and do what’s best for the people in this city.” 

George’s eyes were back on his notebook. He looked up at the director. “Doing something to help people, a flashy public works project. It would make us look more legitimate to the outside.” 

Terry stared at the back of George’s head. His mouth sagged slightly. He closed it. George didn’t look back at him. 

“It would be better to do it privately,” said the director. “We can’t afford missteps right now. Maybe down the line we can handle things like this, but right now we need to be seen attaching ourselves to international markets.” 

“Why?” asked Terry. George looked at him now. His shook his head at Terry, eyes wide. “What is the IMF going to do? Invade? We kicked out America once, we can do it again.” 

That ended any productive discussion at the meeting.

---

“You should be the director.” said Ian to Terry. Her tie was loose around her neck, as she stared unhappily at her desk. It was covered in papers. 

“That would be bad politics.” said Terry. “The rest of the world has to know that the army isn’t running things anymore.” He sat on an armchair. He was relaxed, but he held his arms inside the chair’s arms, pressed against his body. 

Ian shook her head. “What was the point of beating the occupation if we’re just going to keep running things the same way.” 

Terry deflected. “Maybe you should be director.” 

“They’d never let a woman.” said Ian. 

There was a long silence. “Supposing we make a deal with the director.” said Ian. She moved some of the papers on her desk. 

“What are our options for concession?” asked Terry. 

“The Sewage plant?” asked Ian. 

“That’s a matter of safety.” said Terry.

“It would hurt him more than us, since we’re on record opposing it.” said Ian, thoughtfully. 

“Not worth the people.” said Ian. “That’s my formal advice.” 

“You’re right of course.” said Ian. “What about the metro station.” 

“Absolutely not.” said Terry. 

Ian raised her eyebrows, and looked up at Terry for the first time since they’d both crashed in her office after the meeting. “Why not?” 

“Because.” said Terry. “That’s what we were fighting for.”