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July 15, 2090, Bainbridge Island, Washington

Caroline Olstead

At ten o’clock exactly, Angie pops into my toll booth with a cup of coffee in each hand, just like she has every Monday morning for the last two decades.

“I saw that little whore neighbor of yours at Starbucks,” she says, setting one cup on the counter beside me and fishing a handful of sweetener packets from her pocket. “She was flirting with the boy at the register, holding up the whole line.”

She’s talking about Camden, Twila’s daughter. I flick the switch under the counter, which sets the sign outside my booth to read “Lane Closed” in red neon. I am allowed to do this twice a day—fifteen minutes in the morning and sixty minutes at lunch.