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sides of the desk. I longed to strangle him with his stupid bow tie. I forced a smile. “Of course, Sir.”
    The legs of my desk shattered the silence as they hit the floor.
    “Now,” he whispered.
    I pushed out of the chair and stood by the projector, my fingertips tracing the lip of the rusty tin can. It sat on top of a burner beside the film projector. I looked down into the can filled with dirty, debris-ridden water. A dead fly floated belly up, its legs curled inward. The water stank of refuse. I crinkled my nose in disgust.
    Mr. Wallace lit the burner below and sat an elaborate glass seal on the top of the can. Clear tubing ran from the top of the convex seal and into the mechanisms on the side of projector, waiting for the fuel to move the pistons.
    In a few moments, a fine mist began to swirl inside the glass and dew formed in the tubing. That was my queue. He looked at me expectantly. “Well?”
    I closed my eyes and put my hand on the top of the glass, focusing on the miniscule amount of water within. Professor Evans had taught me that thoughts were powerful; that mine could manipulate elements when I willed them to. It was something that the exposure to radiation had caused, but we didn’t understand completely. The past few years, under the direction of Professor Evans, I’d become an asset to our Dome.
    I’d also attracted a lot of unwanted attention, Mr. Wallace being a primary culprit.
    His hot breath tickled the back of my neck and made my hairs stand up. With all my might, I focused on the task at hand. The sooner it was over with, the sooner he’d leave me alone. I willed the steam to multiply, and felt what little energy I had drain from my body.
    It was as if providing steam took some of my own life force each time I called on my ability. I could feel my knees going weak. My hands trembled, and I steadied them by leaning on a nearby desk.
    I hated the after-effects of using my ability. Every fiber in my body felt stretched beyond their natural limit, and I was exhausted. I’d never had a hangover, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I tried to explain the feeling to Alice.
    When the pistons began to crank on the side of the projector, I broke the connection. Haphazardly I slid back into my seat, my fingers gripping the edge of the desks for support. Sounds crackled from the side of the projector. Words ran together, and the images on the screen slid in and out of focus. I’d seen Legs’s dad after his alcohol binges. This was definitely hangover-like.
    “World War III was caused by the greed of men. When oil prices rose in 2016 and fuel became scarce, the Resistance originated in Europe under the belief that a singular government would solve the problems of the world. Not everyone agreed.”
    I looked over at Alice, who sat enthralled, her hands propping up her chin as she leaned forward in her seat. The words droned on and the images showed men in their military garb, marching in unison while flying the red and white Resistance flag. A black fist was ensconced in the white circle at the center of the red fabric. “When the Resistance attacked the Alliance, the side that believed in the good of man, it was by surprise in the dead of night. They set off nuclear bombs that took out thousands of civilians and soldiers alike, and also ruined the soil. The survivors of the attack in 2019 banded together and created what were called Domes, an enclosed area that we as a population attempted to make inhabitable. To a degree this worked, but many died. Only one Dome remains. That is Dome Four, where you live. Now in 2030, we simply aspire to live with a reasonable oxygen level. We must survive. We must be resilient. We must rebuild our world.”
    Those last three sentences were the slogan that every inhabitant of Dome Four could recite. Over and over the government drilled it into our heads until it became our mantra. The screen began to flicker again.
    “While not much is known about the