“I don’t want money, Mr. Smert.”

Mr. Smert gapes, uncertain how to deal with the kind of individual who’d reject the holy trifecta of money, power, and fame. Vani seizes the opportunity to steer me past him before he can regroup. As we move toward an elegant arched doorway, I remember my manners. “Thank you, but no, thank you,” I call over my shoulder. “Hope you find somebody else to make rich and famous.”

2

The Trolley Problem

KIRA

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

We stumble out into the night, an enormous respite after the heat and babble and stress of the party. I inhale, welcoming the sensation of fresh air. Removing the pin from the jacket lapel, I affix it to my T-shirt, where it will be visible to anyone I encounter.

Technically, appearing in public with a pin—green, yellow, or red—is voluntary, but rewards for compliance are plentiful. It’s not uncommon for people to forget their pins, but there are other ways of indicating immunity status. All cell phones in the United States have access to anonymous Bluetooth proximity technology to broadcast a signal related to the most recent IgG antibody tests of the owner, which everyone is encouraged to update at a free center. If your cell phone comes within a twenty-foot radius of the cell phone of a nonimmune person—a yellow—you’ll both receive an anonymous notification. If your cell phone comes within a fifty-foot radius of a known active infection—a red—you, and everyone around you, will hear an alarm. Both yellows and reds are rare these days, of course: the virus has already burned through a sizable minority of us, and most of those who escaped it long enough have now received the vaccine.

You can go off the grid, of course, and some people do, shunning testing and pins and the vaccine. They risk losing airline privileges and certain private sector benefits, but pockets exist of disease deniers and conspiracy theorists who care little for such things. There is also a sizable contingent of fierce nonconformists who prize independence above all else. Most people comply, or try to comply, with varying degrees of success.

Compton waits until we clear hearing distance from the house before she speaks. “Well, that was . . . eventful. Good save on that glass thing.”

“Thank you.”

“And way to dodge poor Mr. Smert.”

“Huh? Why’s he poor?”

“His name.” We reach a lighted stone fountain, embedded in a circular plaza of crushed white pebbles. “Art Smert? With apologies to Garfunkel, I predict zero babies named Art in the future. It’s going to fall out of fashion, like other notorious ‘A’ names. Adolf? Attila? Who wants a name that evokes images of genocide?”

“He can’t help what he’s named,” says Hannah.

“Smert,” I muse. “I’ve never met anyone with that name before.”

Compton consults her phone. “According to Urban Dictionary, the term smert refers to attempting to be smart, but failing terribly.”