Fluoride.

The decision to add fluoride to the town’s drinking water was a contentious issue in Clearview.

The proponents of the change touted improvements in oral health—which, to be fair, our town sorely needed. I still remember Dr. Sheldon standing up at the town hall meeting, holding up photographs from his practice. As a dentist, he was firmly pro-fluoride.

The anti-fluoride camp was just as vocal—if perhaps a bit more eccentric. Their objections ranged from increased cancer risk all the way to CIA mind-control nano-robots. I’m a little embarrassed to say that my own mom was in this camp.

After hours of arguing, the issue finally came to a vote. And though only by a hair, the pro-fluoride side won.

It was still a while before the infrastructure was in place to actually add fluoride to the water, but after the vote, people largely stopped talking about it.

Until one summer afternoon.

Mayor Blythe held a special press conference at the Clearview Municipal Water Treatment Plant. He stood at a podium overlooking a massive vat of water and gave a long speech about progress and innovation, thanking one person after another for helping make it all happen. Then he lifted a small vial over his head, unscrewed it, and poured it into the vat.

It was probably just ceremonial—but that day marked the beginning of our town’s love-hate relationship with its drinking water.

They promised the water would look the same, taste the same, smell the same—only providing imperceptible benefits to our oral hygiene. And at first, that was true.

For a week or two, the water tasted like water.

But soon, those with more sensitive palates noticed a change.

The water tasted sweet.

It was subtle at first, but before long everyone in town was talking about it. For us kids, it was mostly pleasant. Sugary drinks were usually a treat. Everyone thought it was odd—but people chalked it up to a minor issue that would be resolved quickly.

As the days passed and the water grew sweeter, people stopped talking about it altogether.

They were afraid that if they mentioned it, the sweetness might go away.

I remember the first time I stood in front of the refrigerator, staring at a bottle of soda—then turning instead to the kitchen faucet and pouring myself a glass of tap water.

The grocery store stopped selling bottled drinks. Even our fast-food stores served tap water with burgers and fries.

Mom and Dad no longer drank wine in the evenings, nor did they enjoy their morning coffee.

Along with the sweetness came another strange quality: if you boiled the water, it became incredibly bitter, leaving behind a thick tan residue on the pot or coffee maker.

But no one really seemed to mind.

No one wanted coffee. No one wanted soda. No one wanted beer or wine.

They just wanted the water from the tap.

I was no different.

For weeks, I drank nothing but the town’s water. I knew it was getting bad when school started and everyone—including the teachers—brought oversized water bottles to class, sipping constantly, unwilling to go even forty-five minutes without it.

Maybe things would have gone on that way forever.

But if whatever they added to the water was a problem, it turned out to be an even bigger one when they took it out.

I was sitting in third-period history, doodling away between sips from my water bottle when Sarah, one of my classmates, came back into the room from a bathroom break.

She stood in the doorway until even the teacher paused and looked at her.

“Are you okay, Sarah?”

Her eyes darted nervously around the room. She was panting, but trying to appear composed.

“The water… it’s back to normal.”

A murmur rose up in the class. Even the teacher’s eyes darted to his water bottle sitting on his desk.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I tried every water fountain and sink in the school. It’s gone.”

“Okay, okay. Not to worry. Let’s get back to class.”

Sarah sat down at the desk next to me, and the teacher started up again. But the air in the room was heavy. Everyone held onto their water bottles, taking smaller sips than normal.

And as I looked around the room, I noticed that Sarah wasn’t the only one whose bottle was now empty.

But Sarah was getting antsy.

She fidgeted and squirmed. Eventually, she turned to me; her face white.

“Eliot, can I have a little of your water?” she whispered.

I eyed my bottle. Less than a quarter left. There was no way I was giving any away.

I shook my head and pretended to be paying attention to the lecture.

But the next time I opened my bottle to take a sip, I was knocked out of my desk as Sarah tackled me from the side.

She grabbed for my bottle, but only managed to knock it across the room, spilling most of it across the floor.

Sarah, along with two other students, rushed for the bottle screaming, punching, pulling hair.

One kid sprawled across the floor lapping up the water that spilled when my bottle went flying.

Our teacher attempted to rein the class in, but soon students were rushing the front of the room grabbing at his water. He stood on the desk, kicking students in the face as they clamored for his bottle.

I was growing anxious. I could feel the tightening of my stomach. The insatiable craving for more tap water. But with each passing second, my chances of getting it in that classroom dwindled.

Then, a genius idea struck. The fountain!

Not a water fountain like you would drink from. No, the big concrete fountain that sat out front of Clearview High.

I dashed out the door and into the hallway, where more chaos erupted. Students were clamoring and fighting. One kid stood atop a security desk swinging a bat at anyone who approached. You’d think seeing someone get knocked out with a metal bat would deter others from trying the same thing. But the thirst was worse.

I ran past it all, out the front doors and into the courtyard. Only to find I was not the only person with the same idea. At least a dozen others were bent over the fountain lapping the water into their mouths. I took a spot between two other students, and for a moment, we all drank in peace. But soon others came. Some tried pushing their way through; others climbed over us to completely submerge themselves in the fountain.

Soon it was just as bad as inside.

I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt and rip me from the fountain, throwing me to the concrete. As I struggled to find another spot, I heard it. The sound of an engine revving. It got louder, tires screeched, and then a crash. The car plowed through a pile of people, through the concrete barrier of the fountain, and the water spilled out onto the ground, mingled with the blood of the dead and wounded.

A man emerged from the car, which was still running, and took his place among the throng fighting for just a drop of that sweet tap water.

I was right there among them. Stepping over bodies, I hurled myself onto the thin veins of water spreading out from the crumbling fountain.

I found a small puddle and ravenously lapped at the ground, likely drinking up more blood and dirt than anything else. But I needed it.

Even my small oasis was not safe.

I felt a flash of pain on the side of my head as I tumbled over. I could hardly see through the darkness that took over my vision in the wake of the blow. But I hurled myself back toward the water.

The man who had kicked me pinned me to the ground. His eyes were bloodshot; his face contorted in rage. And when he raised his fist to strike, I saw something glimmering in his hand. A knife.

He stabbed. I stopped his blow with my outstretched hands, receiving a deep gash on my forearm.

Just then, a siren sounded as black RYNECORP vans sped into the courtyard. My attacker looked away just long enough for me to slip out of his grasp.

Though wounded, I searched for another source of water as the vans parked all around, and men in gas masks and riot gear poured from the opening doors.

They raised their guns and fired into the crowd. Blue gas seeped out of cans tumbling across the concrete.

That was the last thing I remember before waking up at Clearview Regional Hospital. My head was wrapped, my arm was stitched, and my parents sat in chairs beside my bed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Believe it or not, Eliot,” my dad said. “What they put in our water wasn’t fluoride. The mayor thinks it may have been sabotage—possibly HaleTech Industries.”

But my mom was having none of it.

“I tried to warn everyone! Nano-robots don’t sound so ridiculous now, do they?”