Chapter 1

“Dear Corrigan, Yesterday, the man across from me on the bus collapsed on the floor and started flailing his arms and legs while his eyes rolled up in his head. The woman in front of me screamed and ran to the front of the bus. “He’s having a seizure and it’s contagious,” she yelled. Am I in danger of contracting seizures? Signed, Concerned Bus Rider”

Mikel rubbed his eyes and groaned in despair. “At least the salary will cover my need for therapy in the coming years.” He glanced at the titles of the other emails addressed to “Dear Corrigan” and concluded that this one was probably the most publishable of the moment. Looking up from his screen, he signaled the waiter to freshen his coffee. He had sold a 5000-word article last week to a national weekly and was feeling decadently rich.

“Dear Concerned, You have nothing to fear. Seizures among your fellow bus riders are typically the result of reactions to medication or congenital brain diseases such as epilepsy, all of which are not contagious. You cannot catch a seizure from your bus companions. I hope the stricken man is recovering and that your fellow riders helped him in time of need. -Corrigan.”

As the world around him was twisting in a torturous series of dances, he was answering the questions of the formally normal world. Who knew if they would have a breathable atmosphere tomorrow or if cow’s milk would be transformed into an explosive when adulterated baking powder was added to the recipe. The preliminary report from the taping of “Chefs’ Duel to the Death” hinted at such a conversion in the court filing. When they operationalized the A.I. programs, the possibilities were unknowable. Hence, the need for stupid questions answered with calmness and reasonableness in the weekly columns of the newsies.

Mikel fired off the answer to his boss, who would read it closely for anything remotely salacious that could be bundled into a secondary teaser for the promo. Every pundit and media critic had predicted the demise of the online print media, yet all the expectations had proven false. The “Dear Corrigan” demographics were broadly spread across age cohorts, racial divisions, and economic levels, protecting his job from decline and dissolution. He was well aware that the next communication from his boss would be for a salacious submission.

“Dear Corrigan, My wife is ignoring my needs and our new nanny is into ropes, whips, and chains. Is it cheating if I don’t stick it in her? Signed, Lonely Dad.”

He made that one up, but there were plenty in the queue that were close to the same question. Mikel was confident that there were twisted souls out there who spent hours of brain time developing questions that were over the top enough to sound ridiculous but with just enough possibility of being true that the submission was published. Either they hoped to fool him or in some public manner, prove him gullible. He used to be surprised that anyone would make the effort to submit bullshit, but he had learned.

“You will never lose by overestimating the stupidity of your fellow humans,” his “Dear Corrigan” predecessor told him as his only piece of advice. “If they are not asking you where to stick the dick, they’re asking you where not to stick the dick. If your ratings take a dip, talk about sticking the dick. Everyone wants to know about sticking/not sticking the dick.”

“It’s a mainstream publication,” Mikel protested.

“Oh, excuse me,” his predecessor said as he waved his last paycheck receipt in the air. “When submitting for publication, don’t call it a dick. Dick haters want to cut it off; dick lovers want to know where else they can stick it, and virgins want to know where to start. A dick, the dick and only the dick: just don’t call it a dick. Got it?”

His waiter had departed, and a woman of indeterminate age had taken his place. She gave him a gentle smile as she righted the carafe. “You purchased two refills,” she said. He had been feeling extravagant.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Mikel said, eyeing her face and wondering if she had dyed her hair blond or purchased the gene job. “I don’t come here often but I don’t remember seeing you before today.”

“I just moved over from the second shift,” she said hastily. “The crowds are a bit more interesting, and the tips are better, but second shift means there is a lot I cannot do with friends and family. You know what I mean?”

“Yep, I do,” Mikel said as he closed his screen. He did not really know and something about her made him uncomfortable. “Daytime has its perks and also its share of headaches.” His phone dinged. Glancing at the message, he wiggled his phone hand at her, “Duty calls.”

Tossing a credit chit on the table before taking the final gulp of the ungodly expensive brew, Mikel pushed back and rose from his chair. “Until next time,” he said with a soft smile before walking to the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the waitress texting a message as he grabbed the door. He expertly slipped on his mask with the micro-aerator to filter out the particulates; no one could tell he was wearing an upgrade unless they looked closely, too close without being rude.

Outside was a tad blustery, compelling Mikel to pull his coat tight around his middle and pull down his hat’s brim. He checked out a line of people queued up outside the Social Services building across the street. The line wrapped around the corner. “No one knows what the hell to do?” Mikel mumbled, thanking the powers that be that he had a paying job.

“Mr. Barajas?” A man quietly asked as a body pressed against his left side.

“Yes?”

“Please come with us, Mr. Barajas, We’re from the Federal Marshall’s Office and your presence has been requested.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mikel said, his heart pumping madly.

“There is no warrant for your arrest, Mr. Barajas,” the man said as another man took his right elbow and steered him towards a sedan idling at the curb. “Someone who cannot come to talk to you requested that you be brought to speak with them.”

The back door of the sedan was opened, and Mikel was pushed inside with a hand on his head to keep him from bashing it on the frame. “Usually we are only a few minutes from the office,” the first man said as he slid into the front passenger seat, “however, six blocks of Spring Street disappeared last night, and the municipality has not figured out a solution yet. We have a few detours to negotiate to reach the other side of Spring Street.”

“I might be crazy,” Mikel said, “but this craziness is spiraling ever wider. A street disappears, what’s next?”

No one responded to his question. Mikel leaned back into the seat cushion while surreptitiously trying the door handle. Nothing happened. He returned to people watching as the sedan drove carefully down the streets, obeying the speed limits and being courteous to the other cars and to the pedestrians. No one appeared to notice the ubiquitous car among all the others plying the streets.

“Dear Corrigan, I think my boyfriend was kidnapped by the police. Should I report this to someone and if so, who?” Signed, Concerned Girlfriend”

Finally, the car pulled into an unmarked garage and immediately took the ramp heading down to the basement. They drove through a doorway and a metal gate began lowering once they passed through.

“Uh, guys? The gate? Is this necessary?” Mikel asked.

“The gate prevents eyeballs from following us,” the marshal said. “We have another passthrough which will take out all tracking devices coming up. I suggest you turn off your phone before it is fried.”

Mikel scrambled to pull his phone from his sports coat pocket. When he went to press the power button, the phone was already dead. “It’s already dead,” he said with exasperation.