Isa stares at the cracked, concrete border wall separating District 87 from District 92. She hides from the drones overhead under pine trees that stand thirty feet away from the dividing line. The armed patrolling guards drove past her twenty minutes ago and will not return for another twenty. She had timed their policings many times. There are no biometric scanners nearby as this opening is half a mile from any checkpoint. Isa removes her first-time voter District 87 armband and replaces it with her deceased mother’s frayed District 92 band.

Isa scans the dirt road that separates the tree line and the border wall. She counts, “ten, nine, eight,” then sprints for the cranny just big enough for her to shimmy through.  “Move, move, move,” she says to herself.

Isa’s mother was eight when the districts were “permanently” redrawn by the government during the Big Beautiful Realignment. The president had assured everyone that the new lines were perfectly drawn and in every way Constitutional because the men who drew them were the smartest people he knew. When Isa was a toddler, District 17, and many others, were decommissioned after the new smartest men identified that multiple districts needed demographic balancing.

“Why do we have to move?” Isa, ten years old, had asked her mother. “I don’t want to move again and again and again.”

“It doesn’t matter why we’re moving this time,” Isa’s mother had said, “just remember that voting makes you visible.”

Isa and her family had moved from district to district, searching for the right candidate to support. They had some success, but not much. Then the rules changed, stating that with each move, they were considered undocumented, until the government erected the Big Beautiful Redline Walls, so that no one could leave their district without proper paperwork. Isa’s mother had cast her last vote in District 92, right before the final alignments and right before cancer killed her.

Isa scurries away from the Big Beautiful Redline Walls. She glances over her shoulder, looking for armed guards and drones but she sees none. Isa takes note of the wall: no graffiti, no protests announcing, Votes Not Barriers or Democracy Ended Here.

“I will make myself seen,” Isa says as she runs toward the darkening horizon.

After walking all night, Isa enters a small city on Voting Day. A smile stretches across her face. She picks up her pace. She readjusts her District 92 armband. Each person she passes she smiles and waves at as if she has always been a member of their community. Many of the passersby don’t smile or wave back, but some do, which lifts Isa’s spirit and which makes her think: The city that greets you.

“Excuse me,” Isa says to a kind-looking woman, “do you know where the nearest polling station is?”

The kind-looking woman says nothing, just keeps walking.

Isa sees a young couple on a bench. She asks, “Where’s the nearest polling station?”

The couple look at Isa then at each other then back at Isa.

“Do you know where I go to vote?” Isa says. “I’m sorry. Today’s my first time voting so I must seem like an idiot to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy says.

“Today’s Voting Day. Where do we cast our ballot?” Isa says.

“What’s Voting Day?” the girl says.

Isa stumbles back, looks at each one of them. She starts to say something but stops herself. They must not be old enough to vote, she thinks. Isa thanks them then leaves. She wanders around, making right- and left-turns. She glances into every building, hoping to recognize those long lines of impatient constituents she had seen as a child. Isa makes more rights and lefts when she realizes that she hasn’t seen any drones nor any military vehicles.

“What’s going on?” she says.

Isa continues searching for another hour. When she’s unable to find a polling station, she stops at a diner. She orders breakfast even though it’s after lunch and stares out the window: no hustling, no frenzy, everyone seems relaxed. In District 87 on Voting Day, tensions are peaked as the military presence is heightened and as bioscanners are placed in locations they are normally absent: grocery stores, cross walks, playgrounds. Isa eats her eggs and pancakes. Scans the room. She notices a government-looking official at another table.

“Excuse me,” Isa says. “Do you know where I can cast my vote?”

The government-looking official looks at Isa’s District 92 armband. “Are you from here?”

“Of course. It’s just my first time voting. And –”

“Oh. Congratulations. I remember casting my first vote.”

The government-looking official beams at Isa while talking about the excitement and joy of making a difference. Of the wonderful conversations while standing in the snaking line. Of the celebration after his guy won the election. Isa smiles at the thought of victory.

“I can’t wait to cast my vote,” Isa tells the official. “Voting makes us visible.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” the official says.

Isa starts when the alarm blares. The government official jumps up, grabs her, slams her to the floor. Out of nowhere, agents materialize. Isa’s right cheek, the one that bounced off the diner floor, begins to throb.

“What did I do?” Isa shouts.

“You are under arrest for illegally entering the Redline Zone,” someone says.  

The government official pulls her from the floor, walks her out the door. Other officials parade about as onlookers gather around. The government official grabs Isa’s District 92 armband, rips it off her.

“What are you doing?” Isa shouts. “That was my mother’s.” She begins to cry.

“You have been Redline Classified. Your voting rights and citizenship are revoked. You are now officially a Non-voter, a Non-citizen, a Ghost. Just like everyone else. Welcome to District 92.” The government official takes out a portable bioscanner, presses some buttons, scans Isa’s arm. After a few minutes, Isa stands in the center of the street, alone, unnoticed.

– James Morena