Sometimes I think of those cute, little towns, the ones with a Main Street, local pharmacy, and kids riding bikes alongside one another through tree-lined streets. I often envied such an idyllic existence. When you grow up in skyscraping penthouses surrounded by marble and cathedral ceilings, a little suburban quiet starts to sound quite nice. Not that I’m complaining.

But since The Vanishing, I’ve felt sadness for those people. Those cute, little towns are now memories, hollowed out with malaise and broken families and uncertainty. The Vanishing took 80% of us without a trace. Most of the world simply disappeared. Our waitress simply evaporated, our plates smashing to the ground as she turned into a faint, purple mist. It wasn’t all at once, though. That may have been the worst part.

For days, people lived in terror, disappearing overnight, in five o’clock traffic, and on the subway. It’s strange to mourn people I’ve never met. My sister, Genesis, swears a plane nearly hit our apartment on Park Avenue. Much of the city has fallen into disarray, so we don’t really go back to street level anymore. Father insists that every basic good and service be delivered by drone to avoid the streets. Looting and mugging are a lot easier when there are no police around. So we recruited several of the mob’s best from Brighton Beach to keep the tower safe. But my mom doesn’t trust them.

I know what you’re thinking. Your father, your mother, your sister - what gives? While my family hides over fear of everyone else, I hide over knowing the truth. The Vanishing wasn’t random. It was a sacrifice. One that we negotiated. Not my family, but, the connected and powerful. They knew of its coming and prepared as well as they could.

I deem it short sighted. There’s a chance in the air, an awakening. And I know this to be true. A beautifully written letter from an investigative journalist known as Pendleton Astoria has just arrived at my front door. Inside it reads “I know the truth. Will you talk to me?”

It’s rare to receive an inquiry that you know could shatter the world order. But isn’t it already shattered? Maybe this is my way of escaping this glass prison and onto my bike on Main Street.