“Don’t be afraid to wave back.” I placed the voice immediately. Roger Handswerth was a bony Black man, nearly a full head taller than me, with a trim gray beard and an enveloping voice. He wore a slim suit the color of the ocean at night.
I waved out of obligation.
“I’m so thrilled we finally convinced you to join us,” he said.
“No one convinced me of anything,” I said. “Circumstances made it impossible to stay where I was.”
“A tragedy,” Roger said.
“What makes you say that?”
He leaned close. “I’m in the business of knowing,” he said, in a tone meant to chill me.
Inside, meditative rain sounds played through the hallways. Employees paused to smile and wave from inside their glass-walled workstations. I felt as if I were touring a future museum, passing dioramas showcasing how people once worked. It all seemed for my benefit.
“Don’t they find the glass walls distracting?” I said.
“The walls promote transparency and encourage communication,” he said. “Which we value above everything else here at DAM.”
The cafeteria was a spacious eye-white room decorated with photos of employees posing with celebrity chefs. Every week Roger hired a rising star to test out a new menu on his employees. The chefs were given complete control of the kitchen. “It does wonders for employee morale,” he said. He asked me if I was hungry.
My stomach answered with a volcanic rumble. “I’d rather see more.”
“I admire your ambition.” Roger pulled a granola bar from his inner jacket pocket. “You won’t ever eat a better bar.”
It was somehow chewy but crisp, loaded with dried cranberries, chopped macadamia nuts, DAM drizzled in white chocolate script overtop. I downed it in two feral bites. “I’ve had better,” I said, though I hadn’t.
“There’s no award for not being impressed.”
“What about dignity?” I said, which made Roger laugh.
In the domestic facility—the bulbous globe—sweat-drenched employees chatted with Roger outside the health club. At DAM Elementary, enthusiastic teachers stood before classes no larger than six. Pollocks and Rothkos hung on the walls of an apartment complex’s lobby—Roger made sure to tell me they were originals. We passed the chapel, the mosque, the synagogue. Employees told me how grateful they were I had decided to join them. They deeply admired my work and named their favorite videos from my ABANDON days. “You’re too kind,” I told them, absorbing their praise. I felt like Gretel, fattened on flattery. I ate as much as I could. A reckless confidence. I had joined The Atmosphere thinking I wanted to change the world, to help people, but perhaps I only wanted what helping people might give me: attention, validation, vindication. Forgiveness? Possibly. I wanted the envy of Cassandra. I wanted Blake to wish he’d never dumped me. At DAM, however, I received something far greater: a chance to become the Sasha Marcus I’d been before Lucas Devry.
Very few DAM employees were white. They were Middle Eastern, Latinx, Black, East Asian, South Asian, African, predominantly women. They were queer. Fat. Disabled. And happy. Compared to DAM, The Atmosphere was asphyxiatingly white. Dyson had done this intentionally: White men must be isolated to protect other groups. White men should be the ones to help other white men work on themselves—this work should not be the burden of others. But the longer I spent in DAM, the more the pain of my isolation among those men had seemed to sharpen. It was as if I’d narrowly escaped a car accident and the danger had only just dawned on me.
Roger made a point to explain DAM’s diversity. He criticized how tech companies and their employees were portrayed in the media. “The image of start-ups as freewheeling, fun-loving playgrounds for nerd bros has done the whole sector a major disservice. When I first started hiring, nearly ninety percent of applicants were men. Ninety-four percent of those men were white. They were sexists. Racists. Homophobes. They assumed DAM was a toxic playground of misogyny—one long party of Fortnite and genitals jokes. We condone none of that here. DAM has a moral obligation to guide society forward. Part of that means changing how we imagine technology start-ups and their CEOs.
“At DAM, we don’t hire tech bros or self-appointed geniuses. This is a business. We treat it like one. From nine to five, we work. After work employees do what they like—and there is a lot of fun to be had on campus. Don’t think there isn’t. But we don’t believe in forced fun or team-building activities—not when they’re in the service of making employees log extra hours. Our employees do not compete in Ping-Pong tournaments. They do not escape from escape rooms. They don’t play Mario Kart during lunch. Our walls are not for climbing but for dividing contiguous rooms. No yo-yoing during work hours. There’s not a single Hoverboard or Segway on site. No one is allowed to wear shorts. Headphones cannot be used while working—we prioritize interaction, connection. Slack has been banned. Adderall: banned. Soylent: banned. Mountain Dew: Mountain Don’t. You won’t find an energy drink within twenty miles.
“Most importantly, though, we treat everyone here with the care they deserve: Every employee—including retail, health, education, and dining—receives health benefits for them and their families. We have our own doctors on-site, some of the most well-respected specialists in the country, many of whom have chosen to work for DAM because of
