RED FLAG

RED FLAG

Jones was sitting in his favorite chair, iPad in his lap, when the knock at the door came.

“I’ll get it,” said Mrs Jones.

It was a police officer. “Is Mr. Jones here?” he asked.

“Why yes, officer,” said Mrs Jones. “He’s sitting right there, in his favorite chair.”

Jones started to rise.

“Don’t get up, sir,” said the officer, kindly. Less kindly, he added, “And don’t make any sudden moves.”

Jones was confused. “What is it, officer? What is the problem?”

“Is that an iPad, sir?”

“Why—why yes,” said Jones, barely able to keep the tremor out of his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with having one, is there?”

“Just hand it to me. Slowly, using both hands. And then keep your hands on your knees. One on each knee,” he added, smiling slightly at Jones’ muddled effort to comply.

The officer flipped the cover open.. “X.” He shook his head slightly “Sir, to be clear, you’re Jonesy1234?”

“Yes—yes, that’s me.”

“Officer, what is it?” said Mrs Jones uncertainly. Her world was upside down. Was her husband a child pornographer?

“Ma’am, I’m afraid we have to take your husband in for a psychiatric evaluation.”

“What?” her voice cracked. Jones himself was silent, stunned, uncomprehending.

“His X posts triggered a Red Flag notice on the algorithm. We just got the call.”

“But I don’t have a gun,” said Jones. “I don’t want a gun.”

“What did he do?” said Mrs Jones. “Is he threatening people?” She began to sob. “We’ve been married fifty years and I’ve never heard him yell at anyone!”

“Sorry, Ma’am,” said the officer. He was a young man. He had probably started on the job long after the Permanent Term had begun. “I’m afraid your husband has been posting about politics.”

Mr Jones remained silent. He was not exercising his right to do so. That was long gone. He was just getting used to being talked about in the third person while still present.

“But we’re still allowed to, aren’t we? Not that I do, ever.” Mrs. Jones had controlled her tears. She did not want to get sucked down with the wreckage. Someone would have to visit her husband, after all.

“Sure,” said the officer. “This is America. But I’m afraid your husband exhibited signs of serious mental illness in his social media posts. So we have to take him in to make sure he’s okay before he goes out and buys a gun.”

“But I don’t want a gun,” said Jones, breaking through the dark fog of despair gathering around.

“Doesn’t matter, sir,” said the officer, noticing him again. “Ranting about the First Family and the Biological Succession Amendment is one of the specific warning signs in the Federal Red Flag Act. We just can’t have you going out and buying a gun now.”

“But I don’t want a gun.” Jones didn’t bother to raise his voice. He knew there was no point. There hadn’t been in a long time.

“Sure you don’t,” said the officer. “Now if you’d just stand up and turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Jones complied. He knew that was for the best. From where he stood he could see out the picture window and to the driveway outside their building. The police car was parked right in front. His face burned in a hot rush of shame.

The officer grasped him lightly by the elbow and gently steered him to the door. Mrs Jones opened it. “When can I see him? Soon? Oh wait—he needs his pills!”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. You can see him as soon as the doctors say he’s stable. No more than a month, maybe two tops. And they’ll make sure he has all the pills he needs.”

They were on the second floor so the officer didn’t need to make small talk on the elevator ride down. Jones gusted a sigh of relief when he saw no one in their little lobby. It was cool outside, the sky heavy gray, the last leaves skittering across the asphalt. He was glad of his cardigan.

On the side of the car was the official image of the Permanent President. Under it on scrollwork was the boldface WINNING. Formerly e pluribus unum. The PermaPrez was shown from mid chest up, his impossibly tanned face split in a blinding white grin, huge biceps straining his blue suit jacket as he flashed a thumbs-up to his people. Jones hoped he looked that good at ninety-five.

Jones took a deep breath of the late autumn air. He knew he wouldn’t smell it again for a long time. Maybe ever. “I really don’t want a gun,” he said to the officer.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the younger man, opening the back door. “It never has.

“Please get it, sir.”