Brave New Worlds

kitchen. Drea is watching their apartment on channel 9. 53256. Suddenly all three programs are interrupted, and Trina moans. It better not be another evacuation. She only just got rid of the lice in her hair from the last time she had to stay at the 48th Street Shelter.
    The president comes on screen. He's smiling. He's had a lot of cosmetic surgery, so he looks just like Brick's brother, Brett Jensen. Or maybe he is Brett Jensen. She can't remember.
    Remember me , she hears in her mind, like the president is saying it. Her head hurts bad. She misses the morphine. I worry about Lulu , she thinks, and she knows the thought is not new. The doctor's cure never works for long.
    "Good evening," the president says, like he's fancy. Everybody else says, "Hey, America!" then he reminds everyone about Patriot Day. "I've got a special surprise," he says, and Drea claps her hands together like it's Ex-Mass morning. "At dusk on Patriot Day, every city in this great country will launch a FIRE WORKS SPECTACULAR!" he announces. Then he itemizes the cities: Seattle, Santa Fe, Portland, Boston, New York. He doesn't mention Los Angeles or New Orleans, which makes her think they're still at war for earthquake and flood supplies. She can never remember who the war is with, because it changes so often.
    "Ummm," her mother says like she's hungry. "I love all those pretty explosions. "
    "We have explosions every feckin' day, Drea!" Trina reminds her, but it doesn't do much good. Brett Jensen (the president?) has a dimpled smile, which for some reason makes her remember the word soul. A little girl with no hands is haunting her. She looks at her own hands now, and notices that she's been biting them. Teeth indentations are embedded like welts along her fingers.
    "Why's the door open? Where's dad?" she asks.
    Drea sits up from the couch and looks at Trina like she doesn't recognize her.
    "Think," Trina says. "Where was the last place you saw him?"
    Drea furrows her brow. Her fingers are swollen from all the typing. She's supposed to use voice prompt, but she prefers typing because it reminds her of writing. Old people! "I saw him on the television?" Drea asks.
    Trina's lower lip quivers. She wants to hit her mom all of a sudden, which makes her even more like her dad, maybe. "Did he go to work this morning? the door is open. "
    "Oh," Drea says, and slides back into the couch. "Somebody took him, then. "
    "So where is he?"
    She doesn't answer. The president signs off, and new shows start. Their theme songs all sound the same. They plan it that way, so when you're watching a bunch of shows at once it's never discordant.
    "I'm lonely, baby. Why don't you come sit with me?" Drea asks, and Trina would like that. They'll share a blanket and kiss toes like they used to. Trina will tell her mother what she did, and her mother will forgive her. Together, they'll figure out what to do. But Trina doesn't sit, because things have changed, and nothing's the way it used to be.
    On one of the programs, a dark-skinned girl with brown hair and deep circles under her eyes is standing in a dark, dingy room. Flickering lights cast shadows against her face. On the couch beneath the girl, a sickly thin woman lays stretched out and half-sleeping. It's weird, because television stars are supposed to be skinny and tan, not a bunch of ugg-os. Then she figures it out. It's her. It's right now. This is her life. The Committee for Ethical Media has added another camera.
    In her room, she switches to channels 9. 53256 and 9. 53257, then presses rewind. She sighs with relief. The reverse record is working. She plays the tapes backward, and sees herself wiping tears from her eyes while talking to her mother on the couch. Was she crying? She doesn't remember that, though she notices now that her eyes are still wet.
    She sees stillness. Her mother in the dark with the shades drawn, moving only to swallow vitamins and breathe. Then her dad with each arm held by an officer of the CEM, walking backward into the kitchen. They wrestle a little. Her dad is on the floor. One of the men hits him on the back of the head. But then they all get up again. They let him go, and walk backward out the apartment. The door closes, and it is dad chewing toast into existence. She wishes it had happened like that.

    She uses a long metal prong to pull out the old filter. It's black with soot. Then she replaces it with a clean one, and tries not to gag. It's small until it fills with air. Then it