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he didn’t do anything wrong, he should be safe. Surveillance was everywhere in the State. There was no privacy, none.
    He knew enough to stand back and not mingle with the women. He waited, gazing out into the crowd. All of the women were dressed in pink biometric suits, staring robotically at the empty rail, waiting for transportation to a job they didn’t choose and probably hated. As 345 surveyed the crowd, a woman looked back, locking eyes with him. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. His heart skipped a beat. His face became flushed. He had seen many women on the virtual reality screens and during his daily virtual reality time, but no real woman had ever looked directly at him in his entire life. The familiar sound of the tram startled him from his stare, and when the sleek, metallic gray tram arrived, the doors opened, and the sea of pink biometric suits, including the woman, entered the vehicle. As quickly as it arrived, it left—but not before he caught the number on her sleeve. She was 888.
    He stood there alone. Silence. No doubt the State captured what had just happened. His biometric suit must have picked up his increased heart rate. Hearing footsteps behind him, he was fully expecting to see the Social Keepers coming his way. When he turned around, it was just some of his coworkers.

Six
    The Year: 2172
    345 entered the lobby of his apartment building. Barred from going home after work until he met his daily fitness parameters, he headed to the gym. It helped him unwind and socialize, and it was the only place he had human interaction, if he chose it. At work, any deviation from his job could result in reeducation camp or death. Some in his apartment complex gym worked on the assembly line of a factory, inspecting packages all day. As if the job was not tedious enough, their separation from coworkers by hologram cubicle dividers increased the weariness of isolation. Workers were not released from the cubicle until they reached their quota. Work prison, some called it.
    The factory group typically used old-school equipment at the gym—the treadmills, bikes, and weights—interacting with the other men, talking, chatting, and commiserating among colleagues. Others, seeking isolation, headed to the Virtual Reality workouts where any sporting event was available. 345 liked to run the New York City Marathon. In a small room, running on a treadmill, the technology peppered his senses with the sights, smells, and sounds of the race. Feeling the concrete beneath his feet, sun beating on his already sweaty body, the fans cheering him on, the scent of food filling his nostrils, it all combined to match the real thing. VR had evolved to the point that it was indistinguishable from reality.
    Obsessed with thoughts of 888, he ran harder and stronger, trying to push the thought of her to the outer recesses of his mind. Unsuccessful, he thought he saw her in the crowd at every corner of his virtual route. Meeting his daily exercise goal set by the State, his treadmill stopped, scrolling the message: Caloric goal and cardiovascular parameters met for the day. Your session is complete.
    Breathing heavily, dripping sweat, he walked past all the other guys in the gym to the locker room. He thought to himself, Why do I care about her? He was in the Recipient Class. It was not his place or right to be with, let alone think about, another real woman. The State forbade the Recipient Class from fraternizing with the opposite gender. He was taught his class was too important for the good of humanity to be distracted by relationships. For his dedication to the community of man, he was given everything a human needed to survive. He knew this, yet he could not help but wonder who she was.
    Pained by his obsession with her, he struggled with the emotions inside him. He caught a glimpse of the VR screen showing a commercial promoting The Trials —the State’s attempt at displaying justice. But for him, and the majority of the