At Columbia University, the corridors of the Roosevelt Institute were always unnaturally quiet.
Francis carried a stack of documents waiting to be archived, his gaze drifting to the famous black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall.
It had been taken on January 6, 1941, when Franklin Delano Roosevelt delivered his Four Freedoms speech before Congress.
“Freedom of speech.
Freedom of worship.
Freedom from want.
Freedom from fear.” Francis silently recited the four principles engraved at the entrance to the institute.
More than twenty years ago, when he had just earned his doctorate, those words had seemed like a beacon lighting the road ahead.
Now they felt more like museum relics—exquisite and noble, yet utterly out of place with the New York streets beyond the windows.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to his office and set the files down on his desk.
The automatically generated news headlines on his computer screen stabbed at his eyes once again.
[Major retailer announces another 12,000 layoffs as consumer spending continues to decline…] [Home foreclosures rise for the sixth consecutive month as higher interest rates squeeze middle-class families…] [Emergency shelters in Philadelphia reach capacity as demand for housing assistance hits a record high…] Francis closed the page and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He was fifty-two years old and had worked at the institute for twenty years.
He had risen from assistant professor to full professor, and eventually to Director of Policy Research.
He should have been proud of that.
Instead, all he felt was an ever-growing sense of helplessness.
Roosevelt—the man he had spent his entire life studying.
He could practically recite every Fireside Chat from memory, reconstruct every debate behind each piece of New Deal legislation, and vividly describe the frustration and determination in Roosevelt’s eyes during his failed 1937 attempt to expand the Supreme Court.
But what good did any of that do now?
Roosevelt’s final years had been lonely.
Just as they were in April 1945, at Warm Springs, Georgia, when his gaunt face forced a bitter smile for the camera.
Perhaps even then, he had already realized that after his death, the New Deal system he had built with his own hands would collapse under the capitalists’ counterattack.
The interest groups he had kept in check would return with a vengeance, dismantling the social security system he had devoted so much of his life to building, destroying the fairness and justice he had championed, and once again shrouding America beneath the shadow of capital.
What a shame…
If he could meet Roosevelt in person, Francis would grab his hand and shout, “Old Roosevelt, you weren’t nearly ruthless enough when you brought the hammer down on those capitalists!” Knock, knock, knock…
The sound at the door snapped Francis out of his thoughts.
“Come in.” The door opened, and Mary, one of the institute’s graduate students, hurried inside.
Her brown eyes were filled with urgency.
“Professor Francis, we found Donny!” “Where is he?” “Harlem.
Near 128th Street.” The expression on Francis’s face froze instantly.
He knew exactly what that neighborhood was.
It was one of the most chaotic and filthy parts of the city.
The streets were overrun year-round by the homeless, pickpockets, and drug dealers.
Violent crime was rampant, and public security was so poor that even the police were reluctant to venture there unless absolutely necessary.
It was hard to imagine that Donny—a bright, hardworking young man who treated everyone with kindness, and who washed dishes at a restaurant for hours every day after finishing his studies at the institute just to help support his family—could have ended up in a place like that.
“What happened?” “Donny…
he may have been slashed.” The word sent a sharp pain through Francis’s chest.
Slashed.
It was a new term that had spread across social media like a virus over the past few months.
It referred to a hidden social mechanism.
It often began with something that seemed perfectly ordinary—a fraudulent investment app promising safe returns, a predatory loan marketed through social media, an AI-driven scam that emptied a family’s savings, or a series of subscription fees and high-interest debts that quietly spiraled out of control.
Sometimes it was an unexpected medical bill.
Sometimes it was a layoff that lasted longer than anyone expected.
On their own, none of these events were necessarily catastrophic.
But together, they toppled one another like dominoes, shattering a working family’s already fragile finances and dragging them into a spiral of debt, eviction, and ruined credit until they effectively disappeared from society.
Some academics had begun calling it “Social Darwinism 2.0″—a system of exclusion accelerated by algorithms.
As a professor at the Roosevelt Institute, Francis understood better than anyone that the so-called slashing threshold was not merely a series of unfortunate coincidences.
Recommendation engines promoted high-risk financial products to the most vulnerable.
Automated credit systems tightened access the moment someone stumbled.
Employers filtered out applicants by algorithm long before a human ever saw their résumé.
None of it had been designed to destroy lives outright.
But together, the system made climbing back out increasingly difficult.
Francis couldn’t help but wonder whether that was simply an unintended consequence—or exactly what those who benefited from it wanted.
“Take me there.” …
The Chevrolet sedan pulled out of Columbia University’s campus, passed through Morningside Heights, and entered Harlem.
A red light.
Francis stared at a pawnshop across the intersection.
In its display window, a neon sign read: INSTANT CASH.
He was reminded of something Roosevelt had said during his 1936 reelection campaign: “These economic royalists keep accusing us of trying to overthrow the American system.
What they’re really afraid of is that we’re trying to take away their power!” Power.
The insatiable power of greedy capital.
The screech of brakes suddenly came from his right.
Francis instinctively turned his head and saw a massive freight truck careening toward them out of control— Mary screamed.
Francis felt himself lifted into the air.
Then everything went black.
…
He had no idea how much time had passed.
When Francis opened his eyes, instead of the sterile white ceiling of a hospital, he saw dark wooden beams overhead and elaborate Victorian rose carvings.
The air carried a peculiar scent—a mixture of old paper and perfume.
“You’re awake?” A woman’s voice, husky with a hint of lazy amusement.
Francis jerked his head toward the other side of the room.
A woman was sitting on a sofa.
She looked to be in her early thirties.
Long blonde hair draped loosely over her shoulders.
A silk bath towel was wrapped around her body, and a slender cigarette rested between her fingers as she looked up from an unfolded newspaper.
“I…
where am I?
Where’s Mary?” “Mary?” The woman arched an eyebrow.
“I think you should be calling me Lucy.” “Lucy?
Who are you?” Lucy narrowed her eyes.
“Should I call a doctor, Mr.
Roosevelt?
Though personally, I think the best cure for an alcohol-induced headache is simply time.” “Mr.
Roosevelt?
No, my name is Francis Thomas.” “Francis Thomas?” Lucy laughed, her voice bright and crisp.
“Darling, you weren’t nearly so modest at the club last night.
You kept insisting everyone call you ‘Francis Roosevelt.’ Of course, we all know why.” She rose from the sofa, walked over, and tossed the newspaper onto the bed.
“But after today, your surname will once again echo across America.
Congratulations.” Francis lowered his head.
The bold headline on the front page hit his eyes like a bullet.
[Tuesday, November 8, 1932 FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT WINS IN A LANDSLIDE—472 ELECTORAL VOTES SWEEP HOOVER!] Francis’s eyes widened.
“That’s impossible…
Is this some kind of prank?
Or a reality show?” “A prank?” Lucy took a drag from her cigarette before slowly exhaling a plume of smoke.
“A prank reported by every newspaper in America?
Then your uncle must be one hell of a magician.”