This mimosa is my spirit animal, says Shelly again—clearly skinnier than she was in the first clip, and prettier, too, with shinier, blonder hair. The friend spits mimosa over the table. Shelly pulls out her phone and drafts the same post from before. Only this time, she taps a shield icon in the upper left corner of the screen. DAM SCORE CALCULATING flashes. RESULT: 39% chance of causing harm to Indigenous and Native People. 22% chance of losing followers. 8% chance of professional repercussions. 17% chance of personal repercussions. 99% chance of unjustifiable appropriation. DO YOU STILL WANT TO POST? Y/N? Shelly types: N. She sets down her phone. I love spending my Sundays with you, she says to her friends. Awwwww, Shelly Bell, they say.
DAM hammers onto the screen: It’s your strongest defense against yourself.
María uncapped my ears.
Roger patted my shoulder. “Remarkable, right?”
“I still don’t get it,” I said, though of course I got it. I envied Shelly—this symbol of women like me—for escaping the punishment she didn’t deserve.
“You don’t need to get the technology,” Roger said. “I hardly get it myself. All you need to know is that it works.”
“Do you want me to produce videos for you?”
“That’s what I love about her,” María said, to Roger. “The modesty.”
“I wish I could say the same about me,” Roger said.
He and María laughed.
I laughed.
Then nobody laughed.
María said, “Sasha, you’ll star in the promotions.”
My lungs shrunk. “Doing what?”
“Reenacting your infamous night,” she said. “We think your story will really resonate with our clients. What you said to—”
“Lucas Devry,” said Roger.
“I’m not an actor.”
“You don’t have to be,” said María. “You’ll be playing yourself.” She squatted beside me and laid a hand on my knee. She spread her other arm to the sky. “We open with you in the back of a taxi. Is that right?”
“An Uber,” Roger corrected.
“A Lyft,” I muttered.
“We open with you in the Lyft giddy from a wonderful night on the town. You’re on top of the world. You’re laughing; you’re tired; you’re proud of yourself. And you have every right to be. You just got some excellent news. When you pull out your phone, though, you see that an awful man has left an awful comment on your beautiful photo. Close-up on the screen. You type your response, something like…”
“I am trying to create a loving beautiful world,” said Roger. “And the world would be so much more beautiful if you and everyone like you were dead.”
“A fairly innocuous comment,” María said. “Mean-spirited, yes. But on the internet that’s like flicking a pea at someone—if it had been made in a vacuum, that is. Sadly, we don’t live in a vacuum. If we did, we wouldn’t need DAM.”
“If only we didn’t need DAM,” Roger said.
“This time, though, instead of posting you tap the DAM shield on your screen.”
“Upper left corner,” said Roger.
María read off a tablet: “Forty-four percent chance of causing offense. Twenty-nine percent chance of follower loss. Sixty-four percent chance of personal repercussions. And finally: eighty percent chance of personal repercussions. Now, because one or more of your scores exceeds fifty percent, the application advises you not to post. But you’ll type Y anyway—you’re angry; we get it. And what happens? The app delays the post for five minutes, and during that time it gives a comprehensive overview of how other users might interpret this post. This, of course, is available only for DAM Platinum Members. But it’s worth it. Because after five minutes, you change your mind. You type N when prompted again. The Uber drops you off at your apartment. You wake up refreshed in the morning. You go on with your life, with your career. You and I never meet.”
“Sounds wonderful, right?” Roger asked. “That other life.”
I felt like a magician’s assistant standing inside a box pincushioned with swords. “There must be other celebrities,” I mumbled. “Ones who’ve made even bigger mistakes.”
“Sure, there are other celebrities, but we don’t want to work with a celebrity. We want to work with you. Because we love you, Sasha. We’re huge fans of ABANDON.”
“My sister-in-law was a subscriber,” said María. “She changed her life because of you. I don’t think she’d be with us today if it weren’t for your program.”
“We admire all your work with your clients—the care and respect you showed them,” he said. “And the work you’re doing now. Were doing, I mean. With those men in your cult.”
“You’re the perfect fit for the campaign,” María said.
“People know you,” added Roger. “But they don’t know you know you. A large segment of the population (thirty percent) will instantly recognize you. Another thirty will be sure you’re familiar but won’t know without searching. The final forty won’t have a clue who you are. To them, you could be anyone. You could be their sister, their mother, their wife, their daughter: themselves. You’re everyone and you’re no one. You know what that makes you?”
“Trapped,” I said.
“Ha-ha!” said María.
“That makes you a unicorn,” Roger said.
“Something terrible happened to me,” I said. “People died because of me.”
María rubbed my shoulder and leaned in for a hug. “That’s not true,” she whispered. “You know that’s not true. Lucas Devry was sick. You had nothing to do with that.”
I was eager for exoneration. Dyson had said similar things to me months ago. But I hadn’t felt the words until now. María meant what she said; she understood, intimately, how unjust my guilt was. Her words lifted a weight I hadn’t realized was there until she spoke.
“I don’t know if you think of yourself in these terms,” said Roger. “But to me, and to María, you’re an artist. While some artists use paint and words and film and dance, your medium was inspiration, kindness, advice. You renewed people’s faith in themselves. And artists—all great artists—create from places of trauma. They transform trauma into art that addresses the masses. That’s what you’ll do with DAM. Suffering transformed into joy. You’ll commune
