It's not a bad life, but we're prisoners, forbidden to ever leave the complex. We're the decendents of the people who took refuge here during the semi-apocalypse. Our ancestors made a deal with the owners -- they'd be sheltered and safe as long as they, and their descendents, never left. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time, but now we're frustrated and restless.

There is, in fact, a civilization in the outside world. We know this because strangers visit our facility's gift shop, which sells maroon copies of "Zagat's Guide To The World For The Year 161." Those of us who live in the facility can't buy copies of the Zagat's because the price is one knife, and we're not allowed to have knives.

I've befriended another resident, a suave, brow-furrowing British man in his late 30s who bears a perfect resemblance to the lead character in "The Prisoner." He's always concocting schemes to escape, and he promises me that if he gets out, he'll convince the authorities in the outside world to let everyone in the facility leave. One day as we eat ravioli in the cafeteria, he tells me his latest plan.

"I've been watching the garbage trucks from the outside world," he says. "They come once a week, and they're scheduled to come again tonight." He stares at his ravioli. "And I've figured out how to shink myself so I'm only an inch tall. I can stay that way for 12 hours.

"So," he says, "tell me when nobody's looking, and I'll shrink myself and hide in a piece of ravioli. Then you'll dump the ravioli in the garbage bag and take it to the kitchen. Tonight I'll be on the truck out of here."