Bogotá, Colombia, December, 2077, Monday…

Anna Rivera jumped down from the trolley. She swung the backpack over her shoulders and headed for the church, stepping jauntily around the piles of garbage and puddles left from the midday rain. It was nearly 6 pm but there was enough daylight to avoid it all.

The southern part of the Distrito Especial had been the poor part for over one hundred years. Through it ran along the main route to Ibague, a winding highway that went down from Bogotá's high elevation to the warmer climates containing the fincas of the rich with their luxurious residences and swimming pools. It was her curious pastime to often be in that section of the capital as she watched the fancy cars speed by the poverty and filth generated by the uncontrolled desire for profits obtained at the expense of human suffering. They would speed by, their passengers oblivious to their surroundings.

Although Anna identified with these poor people, she was not from there. She considered most of them to be dumb and ignorant about how they were exploited. No, she had grown up in the more well-to-do north, in a large, comfortable house not far from the old Unicentro, the first major American-style shopping center ever built in Bogotá, which by now had seen much better days in spite of repeated refurbishing. Even the old exclusive neighborhoods were looking run down now, so much so that her father had been able to buy three houses, tear them down, and construct his mansion. Her father was a Colombian Senator and she considered him to be part of the problem.