The tragic tale of Darrel the Doormat

California, United States of America, April 2030

Bethune Crescent, Westridge Subdivision, Berkeley

As I pulled out of the garage and made my way down the long, winding driveway, I stole a glance in the rearview mirror. Every morning on my way to work, I take a moment to admire the house. Huge property… Five bedrooms… A pool… I never expected to live in such luxury at the age of 35, even after combining my income with my wife Amanda's.

We both work at the same local construction company, and while our salaries are comfortable enough, we have my grandma to thank for the house. She left it to me, no strings attached, giving us a substantial boost in wealth and status just one year into our marriage.

Smiling to myself, I tore my eyes off the impressive house and took a nervous glance at the mailbox--Nothing. No CUCI letter today. While my wife and I supported the new laws, housing an extra person would obviously be an inconvenience. But so far, so good: we hadn't been called upon.

Plenty of others had, of course, even just a week into the program: CUCI inmates started arriving in the neighborhood two days prior, and more came every day. In fact, just as I pulled out onto the street, a government van was arriving at the house next door.

Three men in orange jumpsuits emerged, along with a well-dressed man with a clipboard. The couple who lived there went out to meet them at the curb.

Just before we turned the corner, I watched the husband go for a handshake--Only to be pulled into a spine-crunching chest-bump, which nearly toppled him over while his wife giggled in the background.

Chuckling to myself, I drove my wife and I to work… And didn't think about CUCI again. Not until that evening, after we'd returned home. Not until the call from my sister.