The Circle

in the same tiny Oregon town.
     “Do we know how we got those?” she asked, but it hardly seemed to matter. Things were
     moving too quickly now.
    In the next few minutes, cars converged on both addresses, their passengers filming
     their arrival. One address was above a homeopathic medicine outlet in town, great
     redwoods rising high above. A camera showed a hand knocking on the door, and then
     peering into the window. There was no answer at first, but finally the door opened,
     and the camera panned down to find a tiny boy, about five, seeing a crowd at his doorstep,
     looking terrified.
    “Is Mercer Medeiros here?” said a voice.
    The boy turned, disappearing into the dark house. “Dad!”
    For a moment Mae panicked, thinking that this boy was Mercer’s—it was happening too
     quickly for her to do the math properly. He already has a son? No, she realized, this
     couldn’t be his biological child. Maybe he’d moved in with a woman who had kids already?
    But when the shadow of a man emerged into the light of the doorway, it was not Mercer.
     It was a goateed man of about forty, in a flannel shirt and sweatpants. Dead end.
     Just over eight minutes had elapsed.
    The second address was found. It was in the woods, high up a mountain slope. The main
     video feed behind Mae switched to this view, as a car raced up a winding driveway
     to stop at a large grey cabin.
    This time the camerawork was more professional and clear. Someone was filming a participant,
     a grinning young woman, knocking on the door, her eyebrows dancing up and down with
     mischief.
    “Mercer?” she said to the door. “Mercer, you in there?” The familiarity in her voice
     was momentarily unnerving to Mae. “You in there making some chandeliers?”
    Mae’s stomach turned. She had a sense that Mercer would not like that question, the
     dismissive tone of it. She wanted his face to appear as soon as possible, so she could
     speak to him directly. But no one answered the door.
    “Mercer!” the young woman said. “I know you’re in there. We see your car.” The camera
     panned to the driveway, where Mae saw, with a thrill, that it was indeed Mercer’s
     pickup. When the camera panned back, it revealed a crowd of ten or twelve people,
     most of them looking like locals, in baseball hats and at least one in camouflage
     gear.By the time the camera arrived back at the front door, the crowd had begun to chant.
     “Mercer! Mercer! Mercer!”
    Mae looked at the clock. Nine minutes, 24 seconds. They would break the Fiona Highbridge
     record by at least a minute. But first he had to come to the door.
    “Go around,” the young woman said, and now the feed followed a second camera, peering
     around the porch and into the windows. Inside, no figures were visible. There were
     fishing poles, and a stack of antlers, and books and papers in piles by dusty couches
     and chairs. On the mantel, Mae was sure she could see a photo she recognized, of Mercer
     with his brothers and parents, on a trip they’d taken to Yosemite. She remembered
     the photo, and was sure of the figures in it, because it had always struck her as
     strange and wonderful, the fact that Mercer, who was sixteen at the time, was leaning
     his head on his mother’s shoulder, in an unguarded expression of filial love.
    “Mercer! Mercer! Mercer!” the voices chanted.
    But it was very possible, Mae realized, that he was on a hike or, like some caveman,
     out collecting firewood and might not return for hours. She was ready to turn back
     to the audience, call the search a success, and cut the demonstration short—they had,
     after all, found him, beyond the shadow of a doubt—when she heard a shrieking voice.
    “There he is! Driveway!”
    And both cameras began to move and shake as they ran from the porch to the Toyota.
     There was a figure getting into the truck, and Mae knew it was Mercer, as the cameras
     descended upon him. But as they got close—close enough for Mae to be heard—he was
     already backing down the driveway.
    A figure was running alongside the truck, a young man, who could be seen attaching
     something to the passenger-side window. Mercer backed into the main road and sped
     off. There was a chaos of running and laughter, as all the participants assembled
     at Mercer’s house got into their cars to follow him.
    A message from one of the followers explained that he’d put a SeeChange camera on
     the passenger window, and instantly it was activated