He looked down the median that cut through St. Charles, first light on the dewy grass that had been allowed to go long, and noticed how quiet the city had become. No engines. No cars, no trucks, no honking, no grinding, no screeching brakes, no air conditioners, no amplified music, no overflying jets or choppers. Just birdsong—the sound of a tropical city gone back to green.

It looked and sounded pretty, but it mainly made him sweat, a sweat that started under his arms and in the small of his back, the kind of mugtown sweat you can tell by breakfast is going to make you want a shower and change of clothes by noon. He would have to make it until evening, when his transport was scheduled to take him back to his true habitat.

The thought of what awaited him back home if he failed made him look at his watch anxiously, wondering if they even had a timetable here in the city that capitalism forgot. He reflexively straightened his tie, even though he should have been taking it off.

And then, after what seemed like an hour standing there—but wasn’t even half that—he heard the bell of the approaching streetcar before he even saw it. Maybe because the front light was off, something that was no surprise given that the streetcar was the only means of independently powered transportation still running in New Orleans, off the power of the sun.

When she opened the door, the driver, a twentysomething white lady who wore a green jumpsuit and a revolver, gave him the look you would give a marooned time traveler you found at the side of the road.

“I hear this is the way to the future,” said Donny.

She laughed. And then she held out her hand.

“I thought it was free,” said Donny.

“Not for outsiders,” she said. “Unless you have a pass.”

“On my way to pick mine up now,” he said. It was almost true.

“Come on,” she said, not laughing anymore. “We need the funds. It’s for a good cause.”

“Hang on,” said Donny.

“Open your fucking wallet, man!” yelled a voice from inside the trolley. Donny looked back at the crowd of passengers, who were all looking at him. You could spot the tourists from their cameras, and the sandals, visiting from Asia or Europe to check out the big experiment. You could spot the American refugees from their luggage, here to punch in their hard-earned ticket out, headed for a better life at the other end of a long cruise. You could spot the locals from the way they looked at Donny.

The one who was yelling at him was a white-haired older lady sitting in front. She had a gun, too, sticking out of the purse on her lap, which looked like she had made it herself from found scraps.

“Cough it up, dude! We can’t afford your coat-and-tie bullshit.”