[ WP ] Write a dystopia that turns into a utopia .

Eight years ago I was visiting a day spa -- on holiday, in the mountains -- when a massive earthquake destroyed everything. Or at least I assume that it did -- there's no way for me to tell, really. 
 
 At the moment of the earthquake, I was getting myself a towel from an exceptionally large closet. I've been trapped in here ever since. Something's blocking the door, I do n't know what. I've stopped thinking about it. 
 
 I've made the best of it, though. There's definitely enough room in the closet to make a life in, and enough towels to make it with. My towel bed is comfortable and spacious, my towel couch is well-stuffed and folds out if I have guests. There's even a towel lamp, which I use to read towel books in the evening. The lamp's shade is a particularly thin hand-towel, kind of like the napkins they give you at fancier restaurants, and for kindling I use old rags that have served their purpose. 
 
 I've even got art -- there's a towel by Macy's that I'm particularly fond of, framed on the wall. It's a luxuriant blue, with the kind of texture that dazzles if you look at it too long, and often I do. I was thinking of getting another one, but I do n't want the wall to look too cluttered. There's a fine aesthetic balance, there. 
 
 I even started my own family -- Junior was just a washcloth only a few years ago, and already he's the kind of hand towel that I always believed he would be. His mother and I are so very proud. It's a blissful scene in the morning -- I'm reading the paper when he comes down around eight, just in time for school. My wife is in the kitchen, making breakfast -- the hearty smell of towels cooking hits me all at once, and I'm content. 
 
 I wo n't lie to you, though -- even though I've just described to you this perfect idyll of domestic life, sometimes I wonder what happened to the rest of the world. That's why I'm not worried right now, even though something is making noises against the door I mentioned. I'm perfectly calm. I have towels wrapped tightly around me, and I feel safe. 
 
 The door finally opens. A man walks in. He looks around, then turns to shout to someone, `` Hey, I found all the towels!'' Then he turns back, and sees me. 
 
 At first he is only confused, but I give him a sincere smile and it seems to reassure him. He says to me, `` We've been looking for towels for a very long time -- we knew they were around here somewhere, we just did n't know where.'' 
 
 He inspects me carefully. I'm wearing my towel suit, as I was just about to go to work, so I do n't mind the intense sartorial scrutiny. But I do n't say anything. 
 
 `` How long have you been in here?'' 
 
 `` Eight years,'' I finally say. 
 
 For a moment, he contemplates in silence what such a long time must mean. Its weight is surely felt. Then he says, `` Listen, there's a spa out there, and a bunch of teams from the FIFA Women's World Cup just showed up. They're all just running around naked, since we ran out of towels. I'm not telling you that you have to, but if you could grab a handful of towels and bring them out, it would be really helpful.'' 
 
 I look back at my life -- my furniture, my kid, my wife. Everything I've lived for, for eight years. It's a lot to think about. It's a hard decision. I ask him, `` How many do you think you'll need?''
