Nazia choked on the thick air. It was always difficult to breathe outside with the stew of chemicals wafting in from the factory smokestacks and oil refineries. After several bouts of coughing, she took a few swigs of warm water from the single-use plastic bottle that she always carried. It only slightly alleviated her dry throat.

She maneuvered her way through the busy streets of Drudge Division #59234, passing by worn-out workers trudging home in tattered boots. The gritty pavement was littered with cigarette butts, broken glass from cheap wine bottles, and decomposing bodies of homeless people. Though her body felt fatigued and weakened by her plasma donation, she reassured herself that the $20 that she earned would allow her to scrounge up another meal or two for her family. 

Soon, she arrived at her crumbling home and opened the door. Her younger brother Ayan sat on the sofa flipping through television channels. He paused on a C-SPAN stream of politicians arguing over whether or not to increase the minimum wage from $7.25 to $7.75. His stomach grumbled loudly as she greeted him. 

“How was your day?” Nazia asked. 

 “Fine,” Ayan said, “Juan died today though.” 

 “Another one?”

He nodded. “His family couldn’t afford insulin anymore.” 

“Didn’t another one of your classmates die recently?” 

“Yeah, different reason though.” 

“That was because of the cop shooting, right?” 

“No, no, that was last month with Dwayne’s death. Last week was Amber’s.”

“Oh, right. She was the one who starved?” 

“Along with her younger sister.”

Ayan yawned, and Nazia settled into the couch with a sigh.