Blue Lawn Fertilizer

The sun was a white plate in the sky. It did not move. It did not set. It just sat there, baking the world until everything smelled like hot plastic. Stan stood on his porch and watched the light bounce off his neighbor’s windows. The windows were too clean. They hurt his eyes. He wore his heavy sunglasses, the ones with the dark lenses that made the world look like a bruise. It was the only way to get any rest. The grass in the yard was green, but it wasn't real. It was a high-grade polymer that felt like soft needles against his palms. It never grew. It never died. It just stayed perfect, every single day of the eternal spring.

Down the street, a lawnmower hummed. It was an automated one, a little white puck that slid across the fake turf. It didn't have anything to cut, but it kept moving because that was its job. The sound was a low, steady throb that lived in the back of Stan’s teeth. He checked his watch. It was three in the afternoon, or maybe it was three in the morning. It was hard to tell when the sky never changed. His credit score was blinking on his wrist. 9.8. That was good. That was safe. But 9.8 wasn't 10.0. And Toby needed a 10.0 if he wanted to get into the Prep Academy.

Stan saw movement in the yard next door. Mrs. Trent was kneeling by a rose bush. The roses were silk, but they were sprayed with a scent that made your nose itch. Mrs. Trent wasn't gardening. She was shaking. Her shoulders were hunched up to her ears, and she was making a sound. It was a wet, thin sound. A sound that shouldn't exist in a 9.8 neighborhood.

Stan stepped off his porch. His boots made a quiet crunch-crunch on the plastic grass. He walked toward the fence. Mrs. Trent was holding something. It was a grey bundle of fur. A cat. It was very still. Its eyes were open, but they looked like glass beads. The cat was dead. In a world where the sun never went down, things weren't supposed to die. It messed up the aesthetic. It was a leak in the Happiness Pipeline.

"Mrs. Trent?" Stan said. His voice was flat.

She looked up. Her face was a wreck. Her eyes were red and puffy. Snot was running down her lip. She looked like a ghost in a bright yellow sundress. "He just... he just stopped," she whispered. "Barnaby just stopped breathing."

"You're loud," Stan said. He looked around. No one was watching yet, but the cameras on the street lamps were always turning. "The sensors will pick up the salt in your tears. You're dropping, Mrs. Trent. I can see it. You're at a 7.4 already."

"I don't care," she sobbed. "He was my only friend."

Stan felt a familiar itch in his fingers. He reached into his pocket and felt the cold, smooth shape of the stunner. It was no bigger than a pen. He also felt the glass vial. It was empty. It was waiting. This was the blue juice. The raw cortisol. The stuff the Pipeline needed to keep the lights white and the smiles wide. If he didn't take it, the scouts would. And if the scouts took it, Mrs. Trent would be moved to the Grey Districts.

"Look at me," Stan said.

Mrs. Trent looked up. She looked hopeful for a second, like he might say something kind. Stan pressed the stunner against the side of her neck. There was a faint click. Her body went stiff. Her eyes stayed open, but the light in them went out. She didn't fall. The stunner kept her muscles locked.

Stan moved fast. He pulled out the silver needle. It was thin, almost invisible in the bright sun. He found the gland behind her ear. He pushed the needle in. It made a tiny pop sound. He pulled the plunger back. A thick, cloudy liquid filled the vial. It was the color of a storm cloud. It was pure, concentrated sadness. As the vial filled, Mrs. Trent's face began to smooth out. The redness in her eyes faded. The frown lines disappeared. By the time the vial was full, she looked like she was having a very pleasant dream about nothing at all.

Stan capped the vial and slid it into his inner pocket. He clicked the stunner again. Mrs. Trent blinked. She looked at the dead cat in her arms. She didn't cry. She didn't even look sad. She looked confused.

"What is this?" she asked, holding up the grey bundle.

"Trash," Stan said. "It's a broken toy. You should put it in the bin."

"Oh," Mrs. Trent said. She stood up. Her movements were stiff, like a doll's. "You're right. It's messy. I don't know why I was holding it."

She walked to her big green bin and dropped the cat inside. The lid slammed shut with a plastic thud. She smiled at Stan. It was a perfect, empty smile. "Have a sunny day, Stan."

"You too," Stan said.

He walked back to his house. His heart was thumping against his ribs. The vial was warm against his chest. That was the good stuff. That was a week's worth of 10.0 for his family. He went inside and locked the door. The air conditioning was humming. It was cold inside. Martha was in the kitchen. She was wearing a floral apron and stirring a pot of neon-green soup. The house smelled like lemons and bleach.

"You're late," Martha said. She didn't look at him. She was staring at the wall.

"Business," Stan said. He walked over to her. He looked at her face. Her skin looked a bit grey. Her hair wasn't as shiny as it was yesterday. She was losing her edge. She was becoming dull.

"Toby's hungry," she said.

"Where is he?"

"In his room. Practicing his Joy-Recital."

Stan nodded. He went to the kitchen table. It was made of white glass. He set the vial down. The cloudy liquid swirled inside. It looked heavy.

"Mrs. Trent had a leak," Stan said.

Martha stopped stirring. She looked at the vial. Her tongue flicked over her lips. "Is there enough for the whole month?"

"Maybe. If we're careful. If we don't waste it on being 'fine.' We need to be 'peak.'"

"I'm trying," Martha said. Her voice cracked. "It's just so bright, Stan. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and never open them."

Stan gripped her arm. His fingers dug into her soft skin. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. The house hears you. The walls have ears, Martha. Do you want to go to the Grey Districts? Do you want Toby to wear rags and eat ash?"

"No," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Go get the boy," Stan said. "It's dinner time."

Toby came into the room. He was ten. He had bright blond hair and blue eyes that were a little too wide. He was wearing his school uniform—a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He sat down and folded his hands.

"Dad?" Toby asked.

"Yeah?"

"Where's Barnaby?"

Stan served the green soup. It splashed into the bowls. "Who?"

"Mrs. Trent's cat. I saw him from the window. He was laying in the yard. He wasn't moving."

Stan sat down. He took a spoonful of soup. It tasted like sugar and vitamins. "Mrs. Trent moved, Toby."

"But I just saw her," Toby said. "She was by the bin."

"She moved to a sunnier district," Stan said. His voice was firm. He didn't look up from his bowl. "A better one. With more light. She didn't need the cat anymore. Cats are for people who are lonely. We aren't lonely here. We have the Pipeline."

Toby looked at his soup. He picked up his spoon, but his hand was shaking. "Is she coming back?"

"No one comes back from a sunnier district," Stan said. "Why would they? It's better there. Now eat. We have the Maypole Shredder in twenty minutes."

Toby nodded. He ate his soup in silence. Martha watched him, her eyes tracking the movement of his spoon. She looked hungry, but not for food. She looked like she wanted to reach out and touch him, but she didn't. Touching wasn't peak. It was messy.

After dinner, they put on their Celebration Vests. They were bright orange and covered in reflective tape. They walked down to the neighborhood square. The square was a big circle of white concrete with a tall metal pole in the center. The pole was covered in spinning blades. This was the Maypole Shredder.

All the neighbors were there. They were all wearing their orange vests. They were all smiling. Some of them were dancing to the music playing from the hidden speakers. It was a fast, chirpy song with a heavy beat. It made Stan’s head ache, but he tapped his foot. He had to.

"Welcome, neighbors!" a voice boomed. It was the District Lead. He was a tall man with teeth so white they looked like they were glowing. "It's time to clear the clutter! It's time to shed the Old Sad World!"

The crowd cheered. It was a loud, jagged sound.

One by one, people stepped forward. They were carrying things. Old things. A woman threw a tattered teddy bear into the shredder. The blades caught it and turned it into a cloud of brown fuzz in seconds. A man threw in a stack of old letters. They turned into white snow.

"Our turn," Stan said.

He handed Toby an old photo album. It was one Stan had hidden in the crawlspace for years. It had pictures of Stan’s parents. They were standing in the rain. They were wearing coats. They looked cold, but they were laughing. It was a dangerous thing to own.

"Go on, son," Stan said. "Show them how happy you are."

Toby walked to the shredder. The wind from the blades blew his hair back. He looked at the album. For a second, he hesitated. He looked at a picture of a woman with grey hair and a kind face.

"Do it!" the crowd chanted. "Shred the sad! Shred the sad!"

Toby tossed the album into the teeth. Crunch-whir. The plastic cover snapped. The paper screamed as it was torn apart. Bits of the woman’s face flew into the air and vanished. Toby jumped back, a manic grin plastered on his face. He started laughing. It was a high, thin laugh that didn't sound like him at all.

"Good boy!" the District Lead shouted. "That's a 10.0 move right there!"

Stan felt a surge of pride, but it was hollow. He looked at Martha. She was staring at the shredder. Her mouth was open. A small piece of a photograph landed on her shoulder. It was a picture of a tree without leaves. She reached up and touched it.

Stan saw her eyes. They weren't empty. They were full of something dark. Something heavy. She was feeling it. The leak was inside her now.

He leaned close to her ear. "Fix your face," he hissed.

She didn't move.

"Martha. Fix it. Or I'll fix it for you."

She shivered. She looked at him, and for a second, he saw her. The real her. The her that remembered the moon. Then, she blinked. The mask came back. She started to clap. "So much better," she said. "It's all so much cleaner now."

They stayed for the rest of the ceremony. They sang the anthem. They drank the yellow fizz that made their tongues go numb. By the time they walked home, the sun was still in the exact same spot. It felt like they had been gone for a hundred years, or five minutes.

When they got back, Toby went straight to bed. He didn't ask for a story. He didn't ask for a hug. He just laid down and closed his eyes.

Stan went into the kitchen. Martha was standing by the sink, watching the water run. She wasn't washing anything.

"I saw you," Stan said.

"I'm fine," she said.

"You're not fine. You're dull. You're dragging us down. Look at your wrist."

She looked. Her score was a 8.2. It was falling. The shredder hadn't helped. It had made it worse.

Stan felt a coldness in his gut. He loved Martha, but the Pipeline didn't care about love. It cared about the aesthetic. It cared about the numbers. If she dropped below a 7.0, they would take her. They would take the house. They would take Toby.

He reached into his pocket. He felt the needle. He thought about the vial. He could harvest her. He could take the sadness out of her and sell it. He could use the credit to buy her a new Personality Patch. She wouldn't be Martha anymore, but she would be peak. She would be beautiful. She would be safe.

"Stan?" she asked. She turned around. There was a tear sliding down her cheek. A real tear.

It was the most beautiful thing he had seen in years. It was sparkling in the eternal sunlight. It was a leak.

He stepped toward her. He didn't take out the needle. Not yet. He just watched the tear fall. It hit the floor with a tiny, wet sound.

"I can't do this anymore," she said.

"I know," Stan said.

He heard a noise from the backyard. A heavy thud. Then another.

"What's that?" Martha asked.

"The scouts," Stan said. "They saw the score drop. They're here for the collection."

He grabbed her hand. "Go to the garage. Get the bags. I'll handle them."

"Stan, no."

"Go!"

He pushed her toward the door. He turned and went to the back entrance. He opened it. Two men in white suits were standing there. They didn't have faces, just smooth silver visors. They were carrying long, black rods.

"Citizen 4492," one of them said. "There is a localized depression event in this sector."

"Just a glitch," Stan said. He smiled his biggest, fakest smile. "My wife is just tired. We were at the shredder. Too much excitement."

"Step aside," the scout said.

Stan didn't move. He felt the weight of the vial in his pocket. The blue juice. The concentrated grief of Mrs. Trent. He pulled it out.

"Wait," Stan said. "I have a contribution. High-grade. Pure. Look at the color."

He held it up. The scouts stopped. They tilted their heads. The one on the left reached out and took the vial. He scanned it with a light from his sleeve.

"9.9 grade," the scout said. "Significant."

"It's yours," Stan said. "A gift for the Pipeline. Just... give us a few hours to recalibrate. We’ll be back to peak by the next cycle."

The scouts looked at each other. The silence stretched. The sun beat down on Stan’s neck. He could feel the heat soaking into his skin.

"Accepted," the scout said. "Maintain the aesthetic, Citizen. The sun is watching."

They turned and walked away. Their white suits disappeared into the glare of the street.

Stan leaned against the doorframe. His legs felt like jelly. He had just traded Mrs. Trent’s soul for a few hours of peace. He went to the garage. Martha was there, huddling in the corner. Next to her was a large, heavy bag. It was the body of the District Inspector who had come by earlier that week to check their plumbing. Stan hadn't told her he’d killed him. He’d just said the man had 'relocated.'

"We have to move him," Stan said.

"Where?"

"The compost. It’s the only place the sensors don't reach."

They grabbed the ends of the bag. It was heavy and smelled like old copper. They dragged it out to the garden, hidden by the tall, plastic hedge. The hyper-pop music from the square was still playing, echoing through the neighborhood. A fast, bubbly song about sunshine and rainbows.

"Happy days, happy ways, in the sun we spend our days!"

Stan started to hum along. He had to. The neighborhood microphones were everywhere. He dug into the compost heap, tossing aside the synthetic mulch and the scraps of vitamin-enriched food.

"Sing, Martha," he whispered.

She started to sing. Her voice was thin and shaky, but she caught the rhythm. "No more rain, no more pain, only joy remains!"

They rolled the body into the hole. Stan covered it quickly. He smoothed the mulch. He stood up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked at his wrist. 9.5. It was climbing back up.

He looked at Martha. She was standing over the grave, her orange vest glowing in the light. She looked like a ghost.

"We're okay," Stan said. "We're still in the green."

Martha didn't say anything. She just looked at the spot where the body was buried. Then she looked up at the sun.

"It never stops," she said.

"No," Stan said. "It doesn't. That's the point."

He took her hand and led her back to the house. As they walked, a small, stubborn spark of something lit up in Stan’s mind. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't joy. It was a plan. He had more vials. He knew which neighbors were weak. He knew who was crying behind their soundproof curtains. He would harvest them all. He would build a mountain of blue juice so high that the Pipeline would have to make him a King.

He would keep his family peak, even if he had to bleed the whole world dry to do it.

Inside, the TV turned on automatically. It was time for the Evening Cheer. A cartoon sun was dancing on the screen.

"Sit down, Toby," Stan called out. "The show is starting."

Toby came out of his room. He looked tired, but he sat on the couch and watched the dancing sun. Martha sat next to him. They looked perfect. They looked like a photograph from a magazine.

Stan stood behind them, his hands on their shoulders. He felt the cold shape of the stunner in his pocket. He was ready for the next leak. He was ready for anything.

The song on the TV grew louder, a frantic explosion of synthesizers and high-pitched voices. Stan closed his eyes for a second, imagining the dark. But when he opened them, the sun was still there, white and hungry, filling every corner of the room with a light that never ended.