COMMUNICATION by meh "Good morning, Siri." Location on. "Good morning." My hand’s glass. A screen’s in my face, blue light jotting my eyes awake. Wrist tweaks, head knocks, neck aches, back pain. Put it down. In my pocket on the crowded bus, my ass hurts with a buzz. "150 with Novel Coronavirus. Please exit at your next stop." In the street, through Hart Island, I rummage through coffins. No one cares when you’re walking, coughing, or screaming, until you’re not. I’m a statistic like Stalin always wanted, perfected in a system designed for misery. "You are not allowed to deviate until 3PM. Are you arguing with me? No, it’s left." It’s right. The screen’s on the ground. My foot’s pressed to its throat. They see me; I know now. Come out, bastards. Arrest me. Sirens. Glass on the grass. My words are my own worst enemy. "We know where you are." Location off. "We know what you think."