Excess heat disorients a snake, causing it to suffer a false sense of hunger. Under these dire constraints, it’ll eat what’s closest to it. 

There are two seasons in the Haven: Spring and Fall. Artificial grass changes pigment from Spring’s vibrant green to moss green. Shiny leaves fall from hollow trees on the last day of Spring, and the botanists are up until dawn on the last day of Fall. Reducing. Reusing. Resticking leaves into porous branches. Like an art project Minseok had in kindergarten. 

The dome displays the same day and night sky — no matter the season. From what he can remember, Minseok’s mother loved this constancy. She would wake him up on the last day of Fall, and they’d watch the botanists sweep the streets as though they were majestic beings. Angels of Haven, she called them once. Minseok adopted the title within the week that followed.

Spring, 2597. He was eight; he thought he’d been fortunate enough to never win the lottery.

Breakfast that morning was grainy — typical. Minseok’s father wasn’t a bad cook. Nobody said super foods enriched with every nutrient known to the surviving man would taste good. A strictly regimented food plan had been in place since the late 2300s. The Society demanded its citizens maintain healthy lifestyles. 

His mother always had a glow about her. Something ethereal in her glossy complexion. Features plumper than the Haven’s other female skeletons pulled tight by suffocating corsets and lace. His father worried from the moment Minseok was born. All he did was worry in those later years. Until Spring, 2597.

Oh, but his mother adored the Society. Longed to be thin and fragile. Pined after the day her child would win the “Hunt Pickings:” a televised lottery that affirmed her suspicions that Spring of 2597. She was special! Her Blessed child, birthed from her special womb, was the same! Oh, the self-validation of it all! 

One moment the man who reported on the weather and the year’s growing death toll with the same intonation was saying Minseok’s name. The next his mother stood proudly on the stoop with him under her palms. Artificial grass a vibrant green. Shiny leaves frozen in their trees. Breakfast settled unpleasantly at the pit of his stomach.

A pearl-colored car worked its way down the street. It stopped twice before it got to them. White-coated men congruous in stature knocked on doors, busted into suspecting homes, and peeled small children from weeping parents. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” each child yelled, but this wasn’t the same as being put in timeout for socking a classmate in the jaw during recess. 

Tires screeched. White shoes climbed the sidewalk. “Minseok Kim?” His mother presented him, and he marred her expression into his memory. This was the penultimate act of her existence; she could do nothing greater than this. His insides twisted, and he threw up.

Grainy yellow on white. 

“I’m sorry,” he said with a burp. As he entered the pearl-colored car, he swore he could hear his father’s manic laughter from the second-story window.

Order breeds good morals. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Your future is our future. Posters lined the walls of the white hallway. “Welcome to the Tower” glared the fluorescent blue sign above a security check-in. 

This was the Tower. 13 floors. Whitewashed. Located in the center of the Haven. House to the ruling government: the Society.

Men in white suits with dull faces, White Coats, passed their group. Minseok was the tallest, the oldest, the calmest of five other boys. He spent the entire car ride enveloped in their cries. Bile clawed up his throat with each passing second. 

“This way, young man,” the guard gestured. Minseok got a brief look at his badge. Johnny. Minseok was an eight-year-old boy into the spring of adulthood.

12. “6,” a voice called on the intercom. Minseok glanced at the slip of paper between his thumbs. 12. 

According to the elevator, this was the 11th floor. The waiting room was abuzz with conversation. Contrary to their firsthand impressions, the Society deluded many boys into believing they could return home. Now a young man, Minseok patiently waited his turn. 

“7.” Another boy waddled behind an automatic door. Blue flashed, briefly blinding peering eyes. Amidst the ignorant sat a pair of twins brought in from a different neighborhood. The countdown caused a glance to pass between them. “9” and “10” were crumbled in either’s tiny fist. 

“8.” 

7 passed quickly. Good? Bad? Minseok couldn’t be sure. 8 took some cajoling to enter. 9 and 10 grew antsy. An animated movie played on the room’s television, but the tension remained tight. 

“9” echoing on the intercom tugged it tighter. Minseok would never see them again. Their conversation before 9, the older twin, entered The Blue stayed with him all the same.

“If I’m not there when you come out on the other side, I’m dead.”

“You’ll be there.”

“I’m dead.”

“You’ll be there.”

“I’m dead!”

“Then I’m dead, too!”

“It doesn’t work like that, Hun.”

9 had heard the rumors. Orphans like 9 and 10 are prime “Hunt Pickings.” Their “St. Theresa’s Shelter” uniforms gave them away. Unlike those all around them Blessed with parents, they didn’t cling to hope.

Blessed: the ethnicity of the Haven’s inhabitants. Those humans lucky enough to claim a spot after the 2345 catastrophe thrived thanks to the Society. A few children twice a year isn’t too big a sacrifice for the congregate. For Minseok’s mother, it was an honor.

But rumor had it only a handful survived the Tower’s entrance exams.

“11.”

9 and 10 had come and gone. The boys who remained looked around. Minseok followed suit. “11?” Confusion punctuated the call. There were struggling sounds, and then a screech, “12!” 

Minseok obediently made his way towards the automatic doorway. Metal slid open, and he was met with The Blue for the first time of many. Machines whirred like drills against his temple. Classical music blasted through overhead speakers. Everything was blue. Blue. Blue.

White. 

White lab coat pristine, a man patted a metal bed and said, “Lay here.” Again. “Lay here, 12.” Minseok gagged, body rejecting the scenario. Paint it. Paint it all yellow, he could hear his stomach’s war cry. 

He puked for the second time. Delirious from the battle he fought with himself, he shouted, “I’m a young man,” while white coats held him down. Strapped him against metal. Stuck syringes in pulsing veins. “I’m a young man!” he got out one more repetition before losing consciousness. 

I’m dead. I’m dead, and there’s no one here. There’s no one on the other side. Minseok woke up in a white bed, in a white room, in black clothes. Not dead, but alone — feeling the farthest from alive. 

“Good morning, Michael.” A voice confirmed his new existence. “And welcome to the 3rd floor, Orthrus.”

Spring, 2597. Minseok. 12. Michael. Orthrus. Today was the day the two-headed dog became a Black Coat, an Angel of Haven, a Savior of the World. Special, just like his mom always wanted. 

Scratching at his bandaged neck, he answered the floor’s call to breakfast. It was as grainy as ever. He kept it down this time; he’s a young man, after all. Walking barefoot, a mar of black against his white surroundings, Minseok swore he could hear his father’s manic laughter from that faraway, second-story window.

Excess heat disorients a snake, causing it to suffer a false sense of hunger. Under these dire constraints, it’ll eat what’s closest to it. Often times, the closest thing to a snake is the snake itself.