The Circle

camera time to the
     products, they all sat down.
    “So there’s a slight concern from the health folks that some of your cameras aren’t
     working,” Mae said, keeping it light.
    “Really?” her father said, smiling. “Maybe we should check the batteries?” He winked
     at her mother.
    “You guys,” Mae said, knowing she had to make this statement very clear, knowing this
     was a pivotal moment, for their own health and the overall health data-gathering system
     the Circle was trying to make possible. “How can anyone provide you with good health
     care when you don’t allow them to see how you’re doing? It’s like going to see a doctor
     and not allowing her to take your pulse.”
    “That’s a very good point,” her father said. “I think we should eat.”
    “We’ll get them fixed right away,” her mother said, and that began what was a very
     strange night, during which Mae’s parents agreed readily with all of Mae’s arguments
     about transparency, nodded their heads vigorously when she talked about the necessity
     for everyone to be onboard, the corollary to vaccines, how they only worked with full
     participation. They agreed heartily with it all, complimenting Mae repeatedly on her
     powers of persuasion and logic. It was odd; they were being far too cooperative.
    They sat down to eat, and Mae did something she’d never donebefore, and which she hoped her parents wouldn’t ruin by acting like it was unusual:
     she gave a toast.
    “Here’s a toast to you two,” she said. “And while we’re at it, a toast to all the
     thousands of people who reached out to you guys after the last time I was here.”
    Her parents smiled stiffly and raised their glasses. They ate for a few moments, and
     when her mother had carefully chewed and swallowed her first bite, she smiled and
     looked directly into the lens—which Mae had told her repeatedly not to do.
    “Well, we sure did get a
lot
of messages,” her mother said.
    Mae’s father joined in. “Your mom’s been sorting through them, and we’ve been making
     a little dent in the pile every day. But it’s a lot of work, I have to say.”
    Her mother rested her hand on Mae’s arm. “Not that we don’t appreciate it, because
     we do. We surely do. I just want to go on record as asking everyone’s forgiveness
     for our tardiness in answering all the messages.”
    “We’ve gotten thousands,” her father noted, poking at his salad.
    Her mother smiled stiffly. “And again, we appreciate the outpouring. But even if we
     spent one minute on each response, that’s a thousand minutes. Think of it: sixteen
     hours just for some basic response to the messages! Oh jeez, now I sound ungrateful.”
    Mae was glad her mother said this, because they did sound ungrateful. They were complaining
     about people caring about them. And just when Mae thought her mother would reverse
     herself, would encourage more good wishes, her father spoke and made it worse. Like
     her mother, he spoke directly into the lens.
    “But we do ask you, from now on, to just send your best wishesthrough the air. Or if you pray, just pray for us. No need to put it into a message.
     Just”—and he closed his eyes and squeezed them tight—“send your good wishes, your
     good vibes, our way. No need to email or zing or anything. Just good thoughts. Send
     ’em through the air. That’s all we ask.”
    “I think you just mean to say,” Mae said, trying to hold her temper, “that it’ll just
     take you a little while to answer all of the messages. But you’ll get to them all
     eventually.”
    Her father didn’t hesitate. “Well, I can’t say that, Mae. I don’t want to promise
     that. It’s actually very stressful. And we’ve already had many people get angry when
     they don’t hear back from us in a given amount of time. They send one message, then
     they send ten more in the same day. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘I was only
     trying to help.’ ‘Up yours.’ They have these neurotic conversations with themselves.
     So I don’t want to imply the kind of immediate message turnaround that most of your
     friends seem to require.”
    “Dad. Stop. You sound terrible.”
    Her mother leaned forward. “Mae, your dad’s just trying to say that our lives are
     already pretty fraught, and we have our hands full just working, paying bills and
     taking care of the health stuff. If we have sixteen hours more work to do, then that
     puts us in an