In the year 2033, a woman named Sarah cradled her newborn in her arms, her heart filled with both joy and concern. As she gazed into the innocent eyes of her baby, she couldn’t shake the worry about the world the little one would grow up in, gripped by the looming effects of climate change.

I walk out of my Los Angeles apartment already panting with my portable fan in hand. I couldn't decide if getting in my car was even worth it, so I just started walking. Luckily it is not as bad out in the morning. I had to fight tooth and nail for this morning shift. You wouldn't think getting the morning shift at a coffee shop would be so hard. 

The tank top I have on is already sticking to my skin when I reach the door. Once I get settled, the customers are already on me. Making sure I wrote down the right milk, getting mad when I don’t write anything down, and somehow even in this chaos and heat, the weird old men still have something gross to say about my tank top. The AC has been “getting fixed next week” since June, so we keep the back door cracked and pretend that counts. The espresso machine throws heat at me while the hundredth person asks for a latte. By ten I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, and I start making tiny mistakes: whole milk instead of oat, iced instead of hot. Who is seriously ordering a hot drink? 

The line reaches the door before lunch. People come in already irritated, like the sun has personally offended them. Water breaks are supposed to be every hour, but that sign was written before we had to start rationing as a city. Now we’re “encouraged to be mindful.” I have a hidden water bottle under the register and steal small sips when no one's looking. Last week Carley, who works afternoons, nearly fainted by the trash bins. Management called it dehydration, like it was something she forgot to do instead of something being done to her. The heat isn’t just making the whole city sweat, the power also flickers on and off. Around noon, the lights flickered and the whole shop went quiet like it doesn’t happen every day. The blender dies mid mix. The machines all click off. Everyone stays quiet like this is our new reality. Then the lights come back on, and everyone acts like it didn't happen.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom reminding me to drink water. I roll my eyes, like that isn’t basically the law now. She keeps telling me to move back home and live with her. She calls me every day telling me stories of when we were in quarantine for Covid, and we said we wanted to live together forever. But I moved here for a reason and let me tell you the reason was not to make minimum wage at a coffee shop. As soon as my shift is done, I rush to my apartment to at least put on deodorant before my interview. I would keep it in my bag, but it would just melt. I changed out of my gross tank top into the most professional weather friendly outfit. I have an interview with a small production company who needs writers on a screenplay they are working on. This is the fourth interview I've had since I moved here, and every job I didn't get was poorly written by AI. I’m starting to think of different career paths. Or maybe living alone with my mother forever. I don’t know which would be worse. 

I chose to ask AI for help before I started writing. I will say it gave me information, but it really didn’t help me write the story. I liked some of the ideas it gave me, but I didn’t like how they described characters. AI doesn’t have the ability to write human emotion, so the characters lack depth. This story was easier for me to write because it based it on a realistic future, I could have of moving to LA to become a screenwriter. This being a real human experience that could happen makes the story more entertaining for the readers.