Chapter 4

The idea took root, growing from a desperate spark into a full-blown plan. If I couldn't survive the real world, maybe I could survive a fake one.

I went to work.

First, the windows. I bought cheap plywood from a hardware store and nailed it over every window, plunging my apartment into darkness. The only light came from battery-powered lanterns, casting long, eerie shadows.

Next, the props. I found a 2045 calendar online, printed it, and aged it with coffee stains and crumpled it up. I adjusted the clocks on my microwave and my old digital alarm clock, setting them years into the future.

The centerpiece was my streaming setup. I positioned my webcam to show me huddled in my "bunker," surrounded by my supplies. The background was a carefully arranged wall of freeze-dried food pouches and water containers.

I created a new Twitch channel: "PortlandSurvivor."

My first stream was clumsy. I sat in the dim light, my voice trembling as I told my fabricated story.

"Day 1,095," I began, my voice raspy. "It' s been three years since the Collapse. The grid went down, just like they said it would. I... I don' t know who else is out there."

The first few viewers trickled in. The chat was mostly skeptical.

: Fake.

: Larping much?

: The power is on at my house in Portland lol.

I ignored them. I had a script. I played a pre-recorded audio clip of a distorted emergency broadcast, the sound crackling from a small speaker off-camera.

Then came the first donation. Five dollars.

: This is weird. Keep it up.

A jolt went through me. It worked. It was only five dollars, but it was proof of concept.

To sell the illusion, I needed more than just a story. I needed drama. I waited until late at night, then played a sound effect of loud, frantic banging on my front door, followed by a muffled scream.

I jumped, acting terrified, and scrambled to turn off my main lantern, plunging the stream into near-darkness. I peeked through my peephole at the empty hallway.

When I turned the lantern back on, my face was slick with sweat-real sweat this time.

"They' re back," I whispered to the camera. "The scavengers. They tried the door again. They know I have food."

The chat lit up. The donations started coming in faster. Ten dollars. Twenty dollars.

They weren't just watching anymore. They were paying for the show.