“My vision is that every American is wearing a wearable within four years.” — Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

“Did you see the game last night?” I ask Greg.

The year is 2029 and we are taking the New, Improved Presidential Fitness Test. The Secretary put some special touches on it himself. My wearable (we all have to wear wearables now, since the Secretary’s mandate) says that I still have 5,000 more steps to go. If we don’t pass our Presidential Fitness Test, we’ll have to visit the Wellness Farm to pick turnips and be “reparented.”

“No,” Greg says. I can sense that Greg is flagging. “Ever since the Leeches First mandate, I’ve had to spend most of my time, you know.” He bends down to pluck a leech off his calf. It lolls about, engorged with blood. He deposits it carefully into his leech pack.

We both sigh. The leeches are the worst. Before taking what used to be called medicine (it is now, according to the CDC’s revised guidance, Just One More Supplement, No Better Or Worse Than Any Other Supplement), the Secretary insists that everyone “try leeches.” The papers at the time described this new mandate as a Huge Triumph for Big Leech. We walk past a billboard with a reminder from the CDC: Don’t Forget to Leech and Bleach! We feel pretty bad most of the time.

“Have you had your Anti-Lemon yet today?” I ask. All the government funding that used to help with vaccines was rededicated to invent the Anti-Lemon, a fruit with all the same properties as a lemon except it can give you scurvy. The Secretary thinks everyone should try scurvy once, to build character. Like every idea he has (he claims they are all his, but I think some of them come from the worm in his brain), it was a good idea. (I am allowed to think only good thoughts about him since the ban on negative energy. The wearable claims to be able to pick up on it, using a technology that is described as “mood ring–adjacent.”)

“Oh, right!” Greg says. He fumbles in his leech pack and pulls out the Anti-Lemon. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I say. I wiggle one of my teeth with my tongue. They wiggle more since the scurvy initiative. I glance at my wearable. Just 4,800 more steps to go. “How’s your job?”

“Great!” Greg says. I can tell Greg is trying very hard not to think a bad thought. He looks wan and greenish, like a seasick pickle. Greg used to be a veterinarian but he isn’t allowed to be one anymore. He’s a Taurus. The new surgeon general just announced that Tauruses can’t be vets. The energies would be all wrong. Greg’s would be especially wrong because of where his moon placement is. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I have accepted that it’s because I’m a Pisces. Pisces are famous for their inability to understand what is currently considered cutting-edge science. Greg has been selling crystals instead. There is big demand for crystals now. “How’s yours?”

“Mine’s great too!” I say, quickly. This is not, strictly speaking, true. I’ve been a lot less productive without my Supplement That Is No Better Or Worse Than Any Other Supplement. It used to help my brain work. Some months I can obtain it, but other months when I go to get it it’s been replaced by a sugar pill. The Secretary calls this a randomized trial, but I don’t think it is. Classic Pisces of me! Anyway, I get a lot more headaches than I used to.

I reach into my pocket for my roadkill sandwich. A part of the Fitness Test is whether we can successfully consume what the Secretary calls Gold-Standard Meat. He says it will “rewild” our stomachs. For too long, humans have been coasting along digesting “indoor food,” which he says is why nobody is sailing ships around Cape Horn anymore or constructing good Chichén Itzás, like they used to. (“When was the last time you saw Christopher Columbus?” he asked on the radio recently. “We’re going to bring all of that back.”)

“Bear?” Greg says, hopefully.

I shake my head. “Mystery.”

We chew hesitantly, the same way we embark on the now-mandatory annual Wastewater Plunge.

“Yours has lettuce,” Greg says.

I look at it. “I hope,” I say.

We squint into the sandwich for some time. “I bet the Secretary would be excited to see that in his sandwich,” I say diplomatically. I wonder if the wearable can sense my fear. I try to eat around the green object.

I can feel a negative thought forming. Hopefully the wearable doesn’t pick it up. Sometimes if your heart beats too fast, the wearable thinks you are making bad energy. If too many people with bad energy get together and think bad thoughts, it can create a deadly miasma. Miasma can cause you to have COVID-like symptoms. Also food-poisoning-like symptoms and polio-like symptoms. It’s amazing how much havoc miasma has wreaked since we stopped authorizing new vaccines.

Greg looks like he’s about to say something. Quickly, I offer him some Apple Jacks, which are now colored without artificial dyes and, somehow, are also full of beef tallow. (The sugar content is the same.) We all have to eat a lot of these natural, healthy foods. Much better than carrot cake. The effort of chewing silences him briefly.

While he chews, I stare at his neck. There’s an irregularly shaped mole there that resembles the state of California. I don’t remember it. “New mole?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Greg said.

“You should get that checked out,” I say.

“Insurance won’t cover it. Too woke.” Greg shakes his head. “Besides, the sun can’t harm us, the Secretary says.”

Greg sighs. The Secretary has told us not to sigh on the grounds that Gold-Standard Science, dating back to the time of Shakespeare, found that each sigh killed your heart a little bit at a time. There aren’t any statistics on it, but that’s good; evidence has long been the ally of Big Pharma. Big Pharma was corrupted long ago because people were willing to pay them more money for medicine that “worked” than medicine that didn’t work. This was a scam, and fortunately the Secretary has gotten to the bottom of it.

Better than data is when you can tell a story about something that happened to a guy you knew, or better yet, a guy your cousin knew. That is how most of the CDC recommendations happen now.

Greg looks hard at me. I can tell he’s about to utter some negativity aloud. I am afraid that he is thinking about the people who have died for no reason. All the people who are going to die. Once you start to think about that, it is hard to keep your energy positive. “Do you ever think,” Greg asks, “No, I’ve drunk all the fermented-soybean enzyme I want to drink. I don’t think it’s helping, and I don’t want to drink any more?”

I look around anxiously. My head hurts. My stomach also hurts. I look at my wearable. Just 4,600 more steps to go. The Secretary has promised that he will whisper the true cause of autism to whoever gets the best Fitness Test score. “No,” I say, quickly. “I don’t.”

Greg nods. “Me neither.”

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