Quota

            Minthe emigrated from Atlantis to the U.S. right before the quotas were filled.  She came with only one suitcase, containing the skirt-suits she’d worn as a young tour guide and her favorite kelp chips (believing that they’d be impossible to find in America, although she’d later be informed they were easily purchased via Amazon).  Those were, of course, confiscated.
            Her daughter had moved to California thirteen years ago, married an American, and had American children that Minthe had never seen.  In fact, she could barely picture what they might look like—would they have gills?  Would they be able to swim?  The thought that they might not disturbed her so greatly she had recurring nightmares about it.  After waking from these nightmares, she would always find herself breaking into a cold sweat—a part of her liked it because it made her feel as if she were underwater again.
            The morning before she left, Minthe sat on the foot of her now-dry bed.  She walked across the dry floor, her skin making flaky sounds against the marble, and looked out the window at the blue and green buildings peeking out like giant fingers through the water.  She watched as older people who had traversed these streets for their entire lives fumbling on still-unfamiliar dry land, watched as the rest looked down at them.
            From where she stood, Minthe could see the school she swam to as a girl, the restaurant Nikon used to own, the hospital Ionna was born at. When she squinted, it was almost like she was looking at these places through water.

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