We’re good Citizens. Ask anyone.

The Social Media Police arrested our neighbor, Vince Gabrinni. They charged him with one count of Social Media Negation. A few of the concerned block mates met in my yard, in the solidworld, but far from the house and street cameras. Rare that we would meet face-to-face, the arrest had unnerved each of us. We wondered what would happen to Vince’s wife and children.

Frank confirmed a Drone Scope floated above the Gabrinni home since the day they took Vince. Robodogs and their handlers, with characteristic riot gear and full-face helmets to protect their identity, swept through the residence. Frank could not confirm if the investigators found anything suspicious. He confirmed the family’s computers were loaded onto a self-drive.

“The kids are in Govcare. It’s best. Their father was a ne’er-do-well,” Caroline Hampton whispered as she kicked at a spot on the sidewalk. “And that Patricia Gabrinni. Do you know, during ballot design, she actually said we should have one person, one vote! Who says such a thing?”

Vince would not be returning to the block. For this month’s sentencing guidelines, twenty-five years is the standard penalty for Social Media Negation. By next month, it could be double. We would only know when the updated guidelines downloaded to our residential wall feeds on the first of the month.

“I figure he’ll get the max,” Caroline said, still whispering. She cast her eyes on the door camera at my residence. The microphone was sensitive, but at this distance, our voices would be garbled. I hoped. We all knew Vince’s sentence meant twenty-five years in reprogramming. She added, “You just don’t delete your social media profiles.”

Burt, Caroline’s partner, shook his head. He leaned towards the group. “And how does his partner feel? To be married to no one? She’s no longer social-media official. Might as well divorce, am I right?”

Caroline said, “If you ask me, he should have divorced her. Good riddance to bad people, is what I say.”

My husband, Alec, pretended to be weeding our vegetable garden. And just to be clear, our garden is within the government permitted four square feet. We use approved pesticides and destroy any produce over three pounds. Ask anyone.

But I knew why Alec was pulling weeds and pretending not to listen. He’s been saying terrible things. Threatening, frightful things. I think about our most recent conversation as I plaster a smile to my face my block mates drone on and on about how tragic Vince’s situation is. Burt insists Vince could argue the computer malfunctioned, but we all know that excuse hasn’t worked since implementation of The Distance Law.

Before then, computers malfunctioned all the time. I know it sounds unbelievable, many people didn’t have a computer, a cell phone, or a wrist-chip! But after the last pox crisis, where the schools shifted to permanent virtual format, they assigned every citizen a Micromush Computer. For free, of course! Courtesy of the Gates Foundation.

And I’m thankful our leaders took control of that industry! Can you imagine if we had incompatible systems — or Gates Forbid! — incompatible operating systems? When The Distance Law passed, and we shifted to only Micromush operating systems, the world became a better place. A safe place. A place where we no longer need to worry about anything.

We no longer have to decide on a career. That’s assigned. Easy peasy! School is a standard ten years. My kids don’t have to suffer through math classes. Or learn anatomy or biology or any of that. Each computer performs even the most difficult mathematical calculations. Like when I need to figure how many hours we can garden, I just ask Micromush. If I’m concerned about that bump on my arm, I ask Micromush. Govcare and MedRix are always there. I don’t need to know anything. Such a relief!

Work is a joy, too. I’ve been employed as a Crafter for sixteen years. I’ll never look back. During each work period, I log onto our network and direct a robotics team to sew block jumpsuits. Last period, I got to work on our very own teal jumpsuits! I was honored. And it’s nice not to have to commute. Been there, done that. Since The Distance Law, and the lock down restrictions only allow a person to be away from home two hours each week, commuting to work or school became impossible. Now, to each his or her block. It really creates a sense of community.

Sometimes I complain because I have only video-visited with my sister for an hour in the last year. And my wrist chip burns under my skin every once in a while. But I manage.

Who wants to leave home, anyway? Our home is Stage Controlled by the Main Management Systems (MMS). I don’t have to turn lights on or off — or set a thermostat. I don’t have to clean. It would amaze my mother at the advances of modern technology! The micro-oven and launderbox start right on time. All I need to do is put the prepared trays in the micro-oven or pile soiled items in the launderbox. Life is so much easier now!

And I can buy anything we need from Amacrap. Unlike years gone by, when you would have to shop and consider, I buy with confidence because the government ensures anything sold passes a strict quality control protocol. You don’t have to think about anything. Whatever you need, the Amacrap system selects the item and ships it to you. And each item, no matter makeup or medicine or lightbulb, is checked for bias and appropriateness. When you have one government-approved manufacturer, you can be assured you are getting the best of the best.

Our daughter complains that her clothing doesn’t fit, and she hates wearing only teal. But our leaders know best. Her clothing will fit when she loses the weight and forms her body into the government-approved size and gender. And teal is the color of equality. I know she’s confused right now, but she’ll grow up and appreciate not having to make all the choices her father and I had to make when we were her age!

The noon siren directs us to return to our residences. I’m relieved our children are in their pods, plugged into school, because Alec starts his crazy talk again.

“I’m doing it, Gina. I’m deleting every profile.” He tosses his garden gloves onto the counter and struggles to pull on his germicide gloves. “I can’t stand the bullshit anymore.”

“You’re so funny, Alec,” I say with a guffaw as I pull at his sleeve. I direct him into the hallway, far away from the Wall Sensor Elite and the Cop Box EXZ. I don’t want his mad rant recorded. He’ll feel better soon, but his thoughtless comments will appear on our house report. And could trigger an investigation. I drop my voice to a whisper. “You can’t delete your social media profiles. Think of what just happened to Vince.”

“I don’t give a shit, Gina. I can’t anymore.”

“You can’t what? Control yourself? You simply don’t say a thing. Remember, if you have nothing nice to say -”

“-I know, I know. Avoid hard words, use Instapic and post only images. Silence is for the disagreeable who should stay off of Headbook. I know the rules, Gina.”

“Alec. Please. Think of our children.”

He looks down past his state-issued sneakers and at the government-approved vinyl flooring. “I just can’t do it, baby. I want to listen to the music I want. Do you remember country music? Or heavy metal? I want to go to a park. I want to play football. Or walk through the woods.”

“Do you know the germs in the woods?”

“Do you know how crazy you’ve become? I need to eat some bacon!” He stands over me, gloved fists raised.

I sneer. “Bacon? What kind of person eats flesh, Alec? Sometimes I don’t know whom I married.” I know I’m shaking my head.

“I can do without the flesh, as you call it. But I can’t control myself anymore. I feel like I’m going to just start screaming!”

“Alec!” I stage whisper and put my palm up.

“Before the Critical Wars, I performed surgeries. I saved people, Gina.”

“We don’t discuss that.”

“Why don’t we discuss that? Do you think I’m happy soldering computer parts? Do you? And do you think I’m happy listening to edicts from these politicians about what vitamins are required? About how the increase in tomato prices is because of a flood in Botswana? About how the 60% tax rate is improving our schools? Our own son is 15 and can’t read.”

“I mean it, Alec. You have to stop. You’ve been on this tare for a month. Where will it get us? You’ll get dragged away…” I can’t stop my tears.

He steps back, his face twisted into a grimace. He leans towards me and then takes me in his arms. “I’m sorry, babe. I am.” He whispers into my regulation-teal hair, “I just remember when we were kids. I’ll be okay. Maybe I need to log into MedRix. I’ll be okay. I’m sorry.”

I cry into the night interspersed with cloudy nightmares of armored guards and robodogs dragging Alec away. He must learn self-control. A sneer or a slipped word could mean reprograming. I don’t want to lose him.

We are good citizens. We buy regulation clothing and housewares through Amacrap. We listen to state-sanctioned racially mixed music stations. We only vote for the party line. And we vote at least three times in each election. Sometimes more often. I specifically cast my dead parents’ votes. We attend a different place of worship each Sunday and never express our opinions, so we never risk offense. And we regularly take part in ritual, bisexual relation club to validate all preferences. Although I’ve never enjoyed watching the men.

Wait. I didn’t say that. I didn’t even think it.

And we live by the societal codes. We set aside three hours each night to wish every social media friend a happy birthday or anniversary. I only missed one person last year, and that was during the energy conservation week when we have no electricity or water. I got dispensation after agreeing to post pictures of that friend and myself celebrating her birthday with belated apologies. And I did it. Ask anyone.

We also like every friend’s posts, using the appropriate emoji and sharing to all our related social media feeds. Sure, it takes some time, but after our regulation ten-hour workday, we have enough time to meet our social media responsibilities before watching state-sanctioned sports and the Govcare report.

We use our daily thirty minutes of relationship time to put the children to bed. Josh insists upon reciting the loyalty pledges as a family. It says it helps him relax. Bethany is autonomous at her age, but she’s always been my happy little being. Aside from the one night a week she reports to Age Programming and the two days a month she attends Gender Assignment, she recites with the rest of us. I have wonderful, dutiful children. Ask anyone.

And we post, at minimum, the seven regulated times each day, disclosing what we eat, any medical condition or injury, and anything we buy. Each of us, including our 2 children, post one to three videos each week. And we host our family podcast discussing the various ways to use banned books. We heated our home for the past two years using only works of Charles Dickens! In fact, we won the Clapper Patriot Award when our doorbell camera caught Bryan Johanson using his car outside of approved hours.

We do our part. And I can’t for the life of me understand why Alec can’t just be happy. I think he may need his medication adjusted. Logging into MedRix would be the best thing for him. That tire manufacturer who is serving as Chief Medical Advisor to the Ceasar the Sixth recommends having one’s peace medications adjusted every six months. It’s been almost a year for Alec. That must be the issue. With the right cocktail, he’ll be left as rain.

After my sleepless night, I found myself unable to concentrate at work. So, I input my Repeat VidSelf into the system and logged a mental health day. I’m sure my supervisor had no issue with my absence. My virtual video self remained on screen so the other workers would see me and wouldn’t get triggered by my absence. And I’ve only used three of my sixty-five yearly mental health days, so I’m not concerned about my job security. The Controllers only mind if you go over the sixty-five health days and have used all your eighty sick days and sixty-five moodiness days. And I only used a puppy cuddling day once when my mother died.

Upon logging off, however, I was required to visit the puppy cuddling site and look at the puppies playing in a field. I remember puppies. I had one as a child. The amount of germs, though, wow! Watching them is very consoling. I wonder who videos these wild creatures and then realize this is a stock reel. Of course, it is. I prefer the stock reel of the ocean. But you only get that one if you register a mental moodiness day. And then you have to log into MedRix to be evaluated. I certainly did not want to open that can of grass.

But I remember the ocean. I remember how it smelled. Salty. And I remember the feel of sand. And the blue of the horizon. The video reels just don’t capture all that sensory information. Same for the puppies. But I used one of the bed pillows to supplement while I watched the puppy reel. And by the time the puppies curled up to sleep, I felt stable, and it was time for lunch.

I rushed the kids through their portions and picked at my own.

“What’s wrong, birth-parent?” Josh asked.

I turned away and checked if I had loaded all the lunch dishes into the crusher. “Just doing the germ check, hun.”

“You seem distracted.”

Had he heard Alec and my conversation? I would not want him to be concerned. MedRix recently adjusted his cocktail, and he was doing so well. “I’m left as rain, Josh. You best log into class. You don’t want to miss Historical Rewrite again. If you log in, you graduate. You know the rule. Log in, log your A.”

He threw his plate into the crusher. “I’m logged in. I never log out. I want that extra credit.”

Bethany added her plate to the crusher, turning it on with her hip. It began to grind the plastic. She said, “Do you actually know any of the information, or are you just logging in?”

Josh frowned. “You know the privacy acts, Bethany. You can’t ask me that.”

“I just find it a little insane that you can’t read, but you’re in honors everything.” She grimaced.

I raised my hand to silence her. She really could be trying. “You,” I pointed to Josh, “to your cubicle. And you,” I pointed to Bethany, “to yours.”

With a sigh, I sprayed down the counters and table and donned a clear pair of germicidal gloves. I checked my virtual video loop was still operating and watched myself on screen, typing away. For ten minutes, I stared out the window at the expanse. Rows of teal houses, teal cars, teal paved roads, and not a living thing in sight. I have a good life. A great life, I considered as I retired to the screen room for entertainment hour.

Not quite five minutes later, the knock at the door startled me. Someone visiting during the mandatory afternoon television hour was surprising. Who would be out at this hour? I turned down the volume of my favorite afternoon program. Not that I have a favorite anything. Not me. Ask anyone. I do scan for other shows and divide my screen time appropriately. I’d rather not say the title — I never want to appear biased. But it’s the one where that famous pop singer counsels married couples. He’s so insightful and knows just the right statute to cite, so the couples comply.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself face-to-face with the Social Media Police.

“Partner Dorset?” The officer closest to me pushed the door open and three other officers entered the residence.

“Yes?” I watched them removed scanners from their belts. I watched the first officer raise his sidearm to my face.

“Partner Gina Dorset. You are being detained and tried for the crimes of Mispronoun, Trigger Posting, Skipped Likes and Failure to Report. How do you plead?”

“Plead?”

“Yes, plead. Guilty or negligent?” He taps the tip of his weapon against my chest.

“I don’t,” I say and then scramble through my memories. “When did I Mispronoun? I would never.”

“Is it true you addressed your girl offspring as he?”

I press my lips together. “I would never.”

“We know what you’re thinking,” he says, tapping my chest two more times. A second officer pulls my hands behind my back and secures my wrists. I feel my wrist chip heat.

“How can you possibly know what I’m thinking — what anyone is thinking?!” I want to struggle. I don’t. I stay as stiff as I can. I will myself to not resist. I’ve already said too much.

“A strict violation against a transitioning female. That’s flagrant Mispronoun violation, Partner Dorset.”

How did they know? I had meant nothing by it. It’s just Brittany had been Bruce for so long. I just said it. I didn’t mean anything by it. And how could they know I said it? Unless…

Josh appeared at the bottom of the stairwell. One officer patted him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome to the Social Media Police any day, Josh.”

Josh nodded. “And the violation for Trigger Posting? You officers have that, too.”

“Yes, Minor Dorset. We have two, no three counts of Partner Gina Dorset reminiscing about the beach on Headbook.” He turns to me. I can sense his glare under his black visor. “Do you know how many people you upset with your poems about waves and water? How dare you?”

I wince. “It’s poetry. It’s art.”

“We’ll we the judge of that. And the count of Skipped Likes. It’s your duty to like others’ government-approved posts, is it not?”

I shiver. “Yes, I -”

“Is it not?!” He shoves the weapon into my ribs with each syllable.

“Yes,” I say as tears well in my eyes. “I will like what the Gov Alliance likes. This I swear.”

“This you swear. You’re a disgrace to your block. To your residence pod. To Ceasar himself.”

Tears roll down my face. My wrist chip is red hot now. I turn to my son, but he’s chatting with the other officers as he helps them access my Micromush terminal. “I don’t understand any of this. I’m a model citizen. I want my husband.”

“Don’t you mean partner, Partner Dorset? You people just don’t learn, do you? Good thing your boy offspring is astute and loyal. Josh is already packing for GovCare. Glad to go. Brittany? Moved there last night. She just came back to see you off. Good offspring. Not sure how that happened with you and your no-good partner as the adults in this residence.”

“My no-good partner? What do you mean?”

“Did Partner Alec Dorset, just two days ago, buy a weapon from the Dark Market? Did he?!”

“I don’t think -”

“It’s not your right to think, Partner Dorset. Failure to Report. That’ll get you at least sixteen years in Reprogramming. Guilty or negligent?”

I remain silent. That was a right we once had. Long ago. When my family spent summer on the beaches.

“I’ll mark you guilty. Caesar save you.”