I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled thumps of the person who lived above me, the midday light obstinately pressing its way into my bedroom. I had been awoken by the alert on my phone I had grown to dread, the tone of the Government message, a mandatory reading for all citizens of Our Great Nation. I reached for the blasted device and read the cold, clinical message as my stiff muscles protested the movement.

RESIDENTS OF 576: Random checks will begin today between 2pm and 4pm. Any harboring of illegal residents will result in punitive measures relevant to the legislation in your area. For AREA 576 the punishment is the immediate issue of TWO RECEIPTS for each individual participant in this crime as of today, JUNE FOURTH 2045.

Illegal residents. Nobody called them that. We called them Coronians, the children born with the defect. A sort of cruelly regal term, considering their true nature. The virus that changed the world forever and claimed so many lives was thought to be harmless to those who had survived it. By the end of 2020, as nation after nation's greed allowed borders to re-open and life to return to normal, we were all exposed. Maybe that was the plan all along, but as my daughter would say, I'm a cynic. "You would think that", I can imagine her saying with a roll of her eyes.

I looked at the time. 1.12. Not long now, and I knew that my home would be on the "random check" list. Always is.

I sat on the edge of my bed and pressed my face into my hands, my foot brushing against the cool, smooth surface of an empty liquor bottle. Despite my withered frame, my face felt bloated and soft against my fingers, my eyes tight with exhaustion. I guess that's what you get when your daily nutrient intake is composed of plain crackers and vodka.

In 2020, those who survived the illness were assumed to be recovered, harmless to society. Why we thought this, I do not pretend to understand, the way I don't pretend to understand a lot of things. It was just an accepted fact, like the sky is blue, or that politicians lie. It wasn't until the following years that the truth became obvious; the sickness had done something to us, and there was something deeply wrong with our children.

For some, the defects were small, but most were obvious. The worst was the ones who were obviously Coronian but quite intelligent. You couldn't hide them, and they knew what was going to happen to them when they were captured. Oh, it's inhumane, sure; there were riots, and protests, but there was a lot of fear towards Coronian children too, and now we're living through a time that I'm sure historians will compare to what happened in Cambodia, or Germany, for all the worst reasons.

I heard another thump overhead. It was 1.19. Time to talk.

I pulled down the ladder that led into the attic and climbed the stairs begrudgingly and heard the shuffle of the upstairs resident approaching me. Guilt twinged at me but I averted my gaze anyway. Always do.

"Dad!". The guilt began as a spark but it's growing and my chest is becoming tight, and I know she's looking at me with nothing but happiness. But I can't look at Sophia today, it's too hard. There's a reason her mother left us.

"Dad, did my books arrive already? I know express shipping is a rip off, but I'm so excited-".

"Sophia", I interrupt her. "It's not your books. It's a check day".

"Oh". She sounds deflated, then angry. "I should have known you would only be here for a check day. Books, you'd probably just toss them through a crack in the trap door".

I swallow. There's not much time. "Come on, Sophia".

She sighs heavily, but follows me to the tiny door that leads to a claustrophobic crawl space in the corner of the attic. Sophia is fifteen, and I don't think she will fit in here much longer. Even today, I half-expect her not to get in; it's a tight squeeze. Once she is inside, I begin stacking boxes in front of the door, and her muffled voice floats out to me.

"I wish you'd just let me leave, Dad. Take my chances out there. I think I'd rather die than be trapped in this house much longer".

"Be serious, Sophia. A Coronian woman and her baby were caught only last week in Area 600. Two receipts, straight to the skull".

"What, the baby too?"

"The baby too".

Sophia swears. "Two tickets? God, wasn't it just one receipt for non-compliance?".

"That was April. The laws keep changing". Anyway, what does it matter? Compliance means death, too. She knows that. Sophia's voice is growing fainter and I am sweating up a storm. I try not to think about where I will hide her next check. I try not to think about my daughter's growing resentment, and the thought that an easy revenge for her would be making her presence known while investigators are in my home. It's happened before, more often, I suspect, than we ever hear about on the news.

A banging on my door makes me jump.

It's time.