This year everything was different. Detroit Public Schools had announced that they were delaying the start of the school year until further information emerged about H-8. The curfew was being upheld by a police force that was equal parts timid and reactionary. People were trying to go about business as usual and Dune learned what persisted in the face of death—stores kept up shorter hours, barbers and hairdressers offered “H-8 Discount Rates,” a lot of higher end restaurants closed, but the Coneys were still there, selling chili cheese fries and hot dogs at all hours of day and night. The weed dispensaries sent promotional texts with “syndrome specials.”

Dune noticed how life went on. The postal service continued and she wondered who these brave people were, moving from house to house, not knowing what was behind the doors or how H-8 spread. Food delivery boomed as those who could afford it tucked into their homes and let the poor take the risk of outdoors. There were still humans driving ambulances, with other humans in the back hopping out and loading up the freshly absent and those who died in other ways, because that still happened. Even with the option of H-8, some bodies still chose to try other methods of escape—heart attacks, heat stroke, deep vein thrombosis, pneumonia, choking, shot by police, overdose.

Dune also noticed the ways in which Detroit was obstinately itself. No one stopped at red lights, just slowed down and rolled on through. This was usual at night, but now as the city shrank, she saw it happen more and more often in broad daylight from the porch. Who had life to waste waiting at these uncontested lights?

The Daily Crime Report indicated that forty-two people had been shot over the summer. Reports of break-ins were increasing, according to Metro Protective, the biggest security company. They initially requested that those evacuating the city not leave their alarm systems on, but everyone did and soon the systems were overrun as those left behind started scavenging. The company then announced that they would not respond to notifications if no one answered the verification call to the landline.

Everyone who stayed was balancing risk aversion and self-­delusion, as if there was still any safety left.

A developer from DC arrived in August saying he had figured out a solution to H-8. He was given a front-page story in the Detroit News, above the fold. The photo of the white man—dark hair combed back in a smooth wave, suit crisp—felt familiar. Dune wondered if there was a factory somewhere that just produced white men who could see the future of Detroit, a place where she could go and toss a wrench in the gears. She was not surprised that he knew nothing and slipped away from the public eye when it became clear that the only abundance he could tap into was panic. Dune was frightened, annoyed and amused, like everyone else.