I take out my phone and get ready to call mom as the announcement begins to play on the television:

“At midnight, all acts of kindness will be encouraged. For one day, all citizens are permitted to give compliments, offer help, and connect emotionally with each other. All actions of gratitude and affection will be considered socially acceptable, and no one is allowed to feel uncomfortable due to such actions. Merge Day begins in five, four, three, …”

I shut it off before the show hosts began their hour of viewer appreciation. No time to waste: need to call mom. But before I can hit call, my phone rings and I don’t recognize the number. Shit. Can I reject it? That sounds like a missed opportunity to connect with another human being on Merge Day. Sorry mom, looks like you’ll have to wait.

The call is my landlord, letting me know he really appreciates that I always pay my rent early. I only do that to avoid ever having to talk to you, idiot, but I can’t say that so I thank him again for renting out the apartment downstairs to my friend Brody. Good guy, Brody. Not very demanding as a friend, and much quieter than the couple that lived in that apartment before I got them evicted for secretly having a dog. The landlord and I exchange the requisite “look forward to ranking you” and he finally hangs up.

---

I rush to dial my mom before some other rando calls me, but then I change my mind. At this point my sister must have already gotten to her, so I need a way to regain the Merge-advantage. Instead, I phone my sister first.

“Hey sis, how’s my most-favorite sibling in the world?” She is my only sibling.

“So good! We were just on a video call with the boys’ grandma and Davey was saying he loves grandma and his little brother more than anyone, except maybe mommy and daddy!”

“Oh that’s so great, I just know that by the time he grows up he’ll have equal love for all people and be truly Merged. I love my nephews so much, sis. Hey, so you haven’t had a chance to call mom yet?”

“No, I thought you would want to talk to her first, so I waited.”

Damn. She’s good. Sometimes I almost believe it comes to her naturally, but then I talk to mom and see the little faults they share that let me know they’re just like me inside. Can I tell her this on Merge Day? It’s the one time no one should feel ashamed for telling the truth.

I wish her the best and at last begin the Mom Call. Most days I can only reach her around ten in the morning, right after she takes her medication, but during The Merge they’ll connect you at any hour. The nurses are some real angels, so after the customary harping I’m talking to Diane.

Our talk is actually pretty uneventful. She’s able to recall that dad’s dead and that she has a grandson named Danny (I don’t correct her). I’m unsure whether the meds are supposed to help her remember or make her forget. She definitely isn’t Merge-conscious during this call, though, which is refreshing. It also reminds me that she gets to be in an institution, exempt from judgement, a right my generation has been denied. Of course, my side of the call is still being monitored, so after the correct amount of time I let her know it’s time for me to move on to my next act of love and kindness.

I field a few more calls before diving into the social-media-marathon. My persona doesn’t partake in nearly enough in-person groups to excuse lacking an online presence, so it’s time to pay the text-tax. I avoid the image/video communities: manufacturing content for those people is too much work; I don’t know how my sister does it. Instead I have Susan.

Good-old social-Susan. Each of my friend-networks is just a small subset of her domain, which I pick and scrape at like a social remora. Each Merge Day I scan through Susan’s pattern of likes and comments from the previous year. I write variants of her observations of other-people’s lives, mixing it up to make it hard to detect (and yeah, sometimes needing a thesaurus). For a time I fantasized that Susan was a person like me, perhaps even more closed-off inside while commanding her social empire from an armchair with a masterful knowledge of new-wave nonsense and photoshop. I imagined myself listening to the works a maestro, trying to pick out notes to enrich my own bullshit music. Then I met her at a holiday party and now I’m just glad someone is making use of her existence.

---

The calculated, heart-felt blogging session takes hours longer than it should (yes, I have thought about automating this, somehow, but even searching for the tools could put me on the chopping block). I can finally leave my apartment and begin damage-control with Marie. As I’m heading downstairs, I realize I should stop and bond with Brody if he’s still home.

I’m genuinely glad when he opens his door, doubly so when he offers me a cup of coffee. For the first time all night the conversation is easy, partially because I came pre-loaded with the landlord call as a topic, but mostly because Brody suffers from contagious effortlessness. I first became friends with him as a form of camouflage, like an anti-anxiety medication from before those were outlawed. It didn’t take long before I actually wanted his company despite my envy; I’m sure he didn’t spend the morning resentfully trawling the internet for a measure of affirmation. He probably had three deep conversations with friends he cares about deeply. Now I’m wasting his time with talking about how much I appreciate our friendship, hoping it will improve how he ranks me.

I finish my coffee and begin to head out. “Thanks for letting me stop by. I need to get to Marie’s before the Sunrise Reverie, though. Love you, man. Have a great Merge.”

“Look, David,” he stops me, “before you go, I just want you to know… that I know.”

“Uh, right, Marie had some differences but I think we’ll, you-know, Merge today and both feel better and still be friends.”

“No, not that. I know about you. Who you are. I just want to say, don’t worry today. You’re doing a good job.”

He seems completely sincere, but that’s Brody. I mean, if he were trying to get me to confess, he would have to phrase it nicely, right? He can’t yell “I accuse you of not giving a shit about anyone” because if he’s wrong everyone will know he was an asshole on Merge Day. If he’s willing to keep my secret, though, then I really do love him.

I nod like I don’t know what he’s talking about and walk out the door.

---

Walking several blocks after drinking a cup of coffee makes me regret not going back to my apartment after leaving Brody’s. All of the cafe’s are closed (baristas don’t have the work ethic of nurses), so I detour to a public bathroom in the park. After visiting the dimly-lity, thoroughly-disgusting facilities, I take a shortcut along a trail. This turns out to be a terrible idea when I almost bump into a woman handing out bottles of water on the edge of a meadow. I totally forgot people would be gathering for Reverie in the Park where they all watch the sunrise and wish each other a Wonderful Day before ingesting doses of psychedelics.

I accept water bottle from the woman with many thanks and explain to her I’m meeting some friends on the other side of the park. She offers a dose of psychedelics in case I wasn’t able to pick up my Merge-prescription. A sly trick, but I show her my government-issue capsules, tell her she is like literally the most considerate person ever, and go off to “meet my friends.”

Carefully avoiding any more of these volunteers, I make a bee-line for Marie’s place. I briefly blend in with a singing-gratitude group where I notice the butcher from my supermarket tripping balls and singing baritone renditions of songs from Charlotte’s Web. I cover a lot of ground by pretending to chase a Chinese lantern floating off in the wind.

I try the buzzer for her apartment but get no response. I try again, then try her neighbor whom I vaguely know. No luck with either, but I know Marie must be home still: we have stayed together for the past five Merges, and I know she would want my support today even if we hadn’t spoken much recently. I decide to wait for someone to open the door, so I kill time trying get recognized giving out compliments to people passing by on the street. I realize I’m the only person without a name tag so I brave a volunteer-stand, explain my psychedelics are starting to kick in, and get a sticker with “David P” sharpied on it. That should be enough that any of my acquaintances will be able to find me for ranking but any strangers I bother might forget.

After proving I’m the only person who can come off as suspiciously kind on Merge Day, a guy comes rushing out of the building and I barely catch the door while complimenting his mustache. I get to Marie’s apartment where I find the door wide-open with no one home. It doesn’t look like a break-in (a suicidal thing to do during The Merge) so I suppose she just left in a hurry.

Then I find her note on the table.

David,

I can’t play the game anymore. You kept me in it for longer than I deserved, but everyone sees I can’t handle it. I know you understand how I feel. Most people seem to just know how to fit in, make friends, care about strangers. Do they even worry about the rules imposed on them? Why do we need The Merge if everyone has an instinct to be kind? It doesn’t make sense to have one day a year we’re “encouraged” to do something everyone is naturally doing. It’s simply a cruel way to test people like us who don’t know how to behave.

I know my ranking is too low this year. Even if I could keep it together today, nothing will get me out of the bottom ten percent of our generation. So I’m not playing the game anymore. I’ve taken as many doses as I could swallow. I’m going out there. Let them watch as it consumes me. I hope I kick and scream for so long they have to haul me away. Then as a crowd watches, my heart gives out and I collapse. I die before they get to rank me. They don’t get to cut me out of this world.

Your friend, 

Marie

I stare at the letter, the discarded pill wrappers on the table, and the dozens of pills she left behind. I can’t let people think I don’t know how to behave, not during The Merge. If I go looking for her, people might associate me with the incident during ranking. I hope she doesn’t call my name when she finally goes.

I take her letter to the stove and burn it.