text: Mrs. Haskall squinted at herself in the mirror. A blocked lettering of the word ‘Lovely’ appeared in the upper right-hand corner. She smiled as it triggered an old Stevie Wonder song. Below the word, a readout appeared. Her temperature, heart rate, and even her breath rate. She had never known that was a thing until it had been printed out on her screen every morning. The temperature was a little high, she had handpicked the gradient from a mint green to a tomato red. It only ever showed up when she held her breath long to make her head feel like it would burst with pressure. Her temperature was now a light yellow. She brushed her teeth, the vibration clicking into different phases of intensity based on her prescribed regimen. She placed the brush back on the stand, pausing a moment as she heard the whipping sound of its vacuum sending her saliva to the base of the charger for processing. It would be screened for diseases and defects within minutes. Dora Haskall focused on herself in the mirror once again, and decided against makeup. The mask would cover most of it anyway. She combed her hair, feeling the now-usual tugs as hairs were pulled in to the spine of the comb and tested within . At-home drug tests had become the standard for companies that could afford them, though now they were almost the same price as regular combs. It beeped a cautious tone and flashed green as she placed it on a magnetic charging pad on the counter. She adjusted her face in the mirror, focusing particularly on the dark spots under her eyes. She grabbed her mask from the hook on the side of the wall. It had switched places with her face towel, which now lay flopped on the counter. The mask was more of a re-breather than a mask. A small, lithium batter drove servo motors that drove air in and out of the mask. A well-timed ejection could make those motors shoot out a used filter like a bullet casing. The filters themselves were thin and effective. They were costly. Heavily tested to block the specific pathogens plaguing everybody at the time. Each new panic led to mass selling of new filters. A person's mask was like a car, personal and with a long enough life that each one felt like an extension of yourself. It saved your life at least three times. Mrs. Haskell called to her fridge as she walked down the stairs. It reflected her addition of orange juice and chicken stock on the LED screen. The low-light shopping list would be automatically ordered at the the most opportune time. The higher models waited for eye contact to trigger a slow gradient from low to bright lettering, in your favorite font or handwriting. She clasped the mask behind her head, feeling the familiar whirl of tiny, nearby motors. She never opened her mouth while the filters spun into place, it felt too close to that sinister grind of a dentist’s drill. She breathed a sigh of relief when the motors stopped. Each exhalation was sampled and monitored. The tiny bacteria inside collected and reacted to each atom, alerting higher and higher bacteria in a bio-chemical chain reaction until the dreaded alarm was sounded. She told her kids, who were still in bed, that the bacteria wore little suits while they did their job. She reached for the door, anticipating the *whoosh* of air as the tightly closed door opened. She pressed her thumb into the base of the knob. It let out a honk instead of a beep. Her brows furrowed, almost reaching the upper tip of the mask. She turned it hard this time, but the knob stayed. She pressed her thumb again and it honked. She jumped as the honk began to echo through the speakers throughout the house. Normally reserved for the doorbell, they now resounded its short, dying duck honk. Then the words she had dreaded followed: “Infection detected. Remain indoors.” She looked down at her hands, betrayed. They crawled with invisible horrors, a horrible slime that left a killing trail along her skin as they slid. She felt a hitch in her throat, a catch like a splinter from the air caught in the vulnerable red flesh in her throat. She coughed lightly, as her children woke up to the rumbling sounds of sanitizing baths being drawn and doors mechanically clicking as they locked shut. Mr. Holcomb’s morning started with a heavier cough. His name had been John for most of his life and his mask and high-tech toothbrush had been turned off for almost a week now. John walked to his mirror, with no greeting and much more comforting: no analysis. He adjusted himself with fruitless swipes and left with his hair worse than before. His wife was asleep, though not for long. His kids had woken them an hour ago to leave for the park. their coughs echoing in the hallway before they chugged their amber. John chugged his amber as well. It tasted about as sweet as it looked and even more sour. His cough subsided, his throat coated against those annoying dry catches and throat aches. He changed his clothes and quickly rinsed his hands in the sink. The most advanced appliance he owned: when the heat was turned on it automatically spewed out lava. He threw the water off his hands towards the towel and wiped the rest off on his shirt, the sudden warmth clinging to his gut. The door was the last hurdle. He haphazardly fit a plastic mask over his face. It jutted out in places and barely covered his nose. He grabbed an ice cube from the fridge and clenched it in his hands. There were still droplets in the floor from when his kids had done the same. Every house had been outfitted with these door handles by law, government-funded. They spoke to every other electric eye in the house, waiting desperately to lock. John straightened his tie with his other hand, let the ice fall, and grabbed the handle. It stuttered and then beeped green, turning smoothly in its casing with barely a push. The breeze hit John like a fresh hug, even though in the back of his mind it carried a hidden poison that he carried too. John let the guilt fall away. He let one last cough escape, and made his way to work. John worked in the corporate offices, separated from others a few inches of glass and a thick, wooden door. In the past decade, there had been two pandemics and four other minor panics. The technology had followed. Cameras that used infrared to capture temperatures spiked in price and demand and then fell to almost free once everyone already owned one. In buildings behind decades of developed technology, some even took off their masks. John eyed the cameras around him nervously, sweat collecting on his brow. The amber was a recent concoction. It was hard to get but in his position you began to know the right people. It hid all symptoms, but was inconsistent. Sometimes, an ice cube was necessary for the smart door. John could not tell if he was feeling sick or nervous as the line towards the door of his building rushed forward. Every step by the officers around them felt like the beginning of an assassination, a skipped heartbeat as if each step was toward him. His breathing shallowed. The base of his skull throbbed and suddenly it was his turn. A door led to a small room. Across from him was an eye. Digital. A black glass iris a foot across with a glowing center. The blue dot in the middle grew to fill the whole screen, and an image of a nurse came up. John did not fall for it. He knew the true look of this device was the dark eye, with the blue point of light that looked through his soul like it was nothing but data. It greeted him with a smile. He smiled back, his upper lip coated in sweat. He suddenly had the desire to cough, and he could not tell if it was in his head or real. His mind rolled with waves of cloying guilt and denying self-reassurance, crashing after each other. His eyes flickered at the robot. It had asked him a question. His breath escaped him like it was the last bit of air he had left. It repeated: “Have you been within 6 feet of an infected person?” “No,” John replied, wincing at the crack of his voice. The nurse pretended to take notes, a glorified loading screen. It used to be real nurses in the booths. “Are you feeling well today?” A new question, not asked before. “A bit tired,” John rasped. “Couldn’t sleep.” He tried to give a relatable sigh to the robot, but felt only more suspicious as the nurse returned to note-taking. “Do you know the result of lying?” John’s eyes narrowed. His eyebrows almost touched. He had been afraid, now he felt attacked. “Yes,” he shoved through clenched teeth he felt he had earned. “And I know the consequences. Quarantine. Arrest. My family taken and locked into a house that becomes a cage.” He caught himself before he called it a ploy. The constant panic and isolation. The push of people inside and then the push outside to fix an economy that never should have been broken. A strategy to ensure they all follow, to see the weaker people die, and the rebellious become the enemy. As he walked through to work, he partly wished he had spoken more, just to see their response. He got home even more tired. A long day made worse by a rising cough that threatened to break through the amber. He had taken to rubbing ice cubes down his temples and along his neck, telling coworkers the thermostat was broken in his office. No one had worn masks today. It was said the disease was almost done, after only a few weeks this. The redundant filters were no longer necessary. They had shaken hands and high-fived in celebration. Mrs, Holcomb was bent over a pot on the stove, sluggishly stirring. She had been moving gingerly for days, feeling the aches of a fever. “How was yoga?” John asked. “Oh lovely,” she whispered back. “They’re finally moving the mats closer together. It almost felt back to normal.” She smiles softly and accepts his kiss. Their two boys were limply fighting over bread, like their batteries had been pulled out. John turned the TV on, automatically to the news. All programming was halted for pandemic news. With the soup ready, the family gathered with their bowls. They let the warmth rise into their mouths and float into their heads, relieving the pressure within. True smiles came into their faces, and their coughs became more intermittent as they ate. On the television, a local reporter was worriedly showing rising graphs of infections and deaths in their city. And the Holcombs wondered when this madness would end.