Swarm by Lauren Carter

supposed good of all and they continue, with whatever laws they can muster, with a police force they can barely fucking pay, to crack down harder and harder—”
    â€œYes,” Phoenix said, interrupting. “And you’re making it worse.”
    Marvin started to speak, but Thomson held a hand up, stopping him. “In 1989, our dissidents would have been entitled to plant bombs, blow things up, fight violently for what was ours, but we chose not to.” His finger jabbed the air. “Not one window was smashed.”
    â€œThat isn’t what we’re doing,” Marvin nearly shouted. Tentatively I touched his knee, trying to calm him, but he pulled away from me with a jerking motion. “The whole system is struggling to keep this fucking boat afloat with only the wealthiest still breathing. Everyone in steerage has already drowned.”
    His last word echoed in the quiet night air of the diner. Thomson and Phoenix stared at him. I could feel my heart beating, the steady thump of it, driven harder by his anger. His hair had fallen into his eyes and he brushed it away with the palm of his hand. Abruptly he sat back and dug into his tobacco pouch and soon his fingers were busy, moving like wind in the underbrush, scattering tobacco, rolling cigarettes, folding tiny strips of cardboard into filters. Under the table, I pressed my fingers against his legs, but he didn’t respond.
    I would have left with Marvin right then, but Thomson started speaking. “When the people here lost their homes, it was state control.” Marvin looked up. “It reminded me of my grandparents’ stories about the coup in 1948 when nothing they’d worked for mattered anymore.”
    I ran my thumb along the chrome edge of the table. Rust spots showed around the tiny bolts. I was still living at my parents’ apartment when the city cleared the way for EcoGrid to build their solar farm, triggering one protest after another. I remembered the news: how some of the evicted residents set up an encampment on the lawn of a community centre in a wealthy neighbourhood. The media reported plenty of complaints from the homeowners. The protestors crushed the tulips and cleaned themselves in public washrooms. A little girl was startled by a couple having sex under the swings. That’s what the news reported. And one night, the police went in and arrested them all.
    â€œAfter that, a lot of us started squatting down here,” Thomson told me, reaching for one of Marvin’s cigarettes. “And the company gave up because they knew it was too late.”
    â€œToo late for what?” I asked as Thomson leaned into the flame from Marvin’s match. He inhaled, and when the smoke streamed out of his mouth, he coughed, bending forward, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. He was coughing too hard to answer. Phoenix took the cigarette and dropped it into her mug. I heard the hiss of the ember against the remaining dampness. She filled my empty cup with water from a jug on the counter.
    Marvin nudged his shoulder against mine. “Solar,” he grunted.
    â€œWhat?”
    Thomson drank, finishing the water, handing the cup to Phoenix for more. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s too late for solar,” he said, and when Phoenix set the mug down he ignored it. Instead, he returned to his soup, sloppily shoving the spoon into his mouth like he was all of a sudden starving. I heard the metal clang against his teeth. Drops of broth fell on his chest and I noticed the holes in the weave of his sweater. His grey hair hung down to his collar. There was a smudge of black dirt on his bald spot. Late fifties or early sixties, I thought.
    Marvin slid his tin of cigarettes into the top of his pack. He was getting ready to leave. Suddenly I felt tired. All I really wanted was to go home, to sleep. I had no means of making money, feeding myself, paying the rent. I realized this as