“That’s so cynical.”
“It’s only cynical if you’re naïve,” he said. “It’s only cynical if you’re unwilling to look honestly at the world. I know where the seed money comes from. I know who’s willing to pay, and for what. I’ve stretched myself thin as a ribbon to get to this point. Look at me, Sasha. I’m thirty-two years old and my beard’s a permanent frost. You know how you go gray at thirty-two? You go gray from seeing doors slammed in your face. From dial tones in your ear. I used to call DAM The Bridge—a way to cross over trolls. Nobody cared until I promised to protect assholes from themselves. Should I abandon the project because seed money eugenicists only care about their reputations? Should I give up because they’re terrified of their Fifteen Minutes of Shame?”
“Eventually the investors will figure out you’re exploiting them.”
Roger tore off a hunk of baguette and dunked it in olive oil, chewed slowly. “Sasha,” he said with his mouth full. “Everyone’s getting exploited. Me, you, María, even that dude you told to fuck off. I won’t say his name out of respect for you. But his life wasn’t great. And the investors—I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
I heard Dyson in Roger: the ends justified the means. “There’s no guarantee it’ll ever protect the people you hope to protect,” I said. “The investors, those bigots and dullards, will find new ways to harass. Everyone finds a way. Lucas Devry died four months ago and I’m still getting emails from people who think I ought to be boiled alive. Your app—”
“It’s way more than an app,” he said.
“DAM will only stop someone who feels they have something to lose.”
“You really think there are people who don’t have anything to lose?”
My mind flashed to the men, though it seemed condescending to name them. They might have lost their families and jobs, their dignity, yet they had followed Dyson to The Atmosphere hopeful for transformation and change, believing some better future awaited them should they put in the work. What they had to lose was what I had to lose: the future. The redemption Dyson had promised them, and promised me, as bait to draw us to the camp. Roger was right. Everyone had something to lose. But the allowances he made for DAM disturbed me, and it disturbed me that despite his brilliance he couldn’t imagine those allowances hurting him.
“What I think is that thinking that way is a trap,” I told him.
He knocked the table next to my wineglass. “Wake up,” he said, legitimately angry. “We’re all already trapped. Better to create new ways of living inside of the trap. People are smart, Sasha. I have faith in humanity—I wouldn’t have built DAM if I didn’t think people can change. And once DAM exists people will learn its true value: reminding people to not speak out of pain, selfishness, rage. DAM will show us how to communicate with kindness and love.”
“And you’ll be cashing the checks,” I said.
“My parents were engineers with Microsoft. They invested wisely, and they left me a very generous inheritance. Without it I never would have had the money to start this company. The money DAM makes—I don’t care. Most of it goes to my employees.”
“And to your castle.”
“I’m no king.”
“People talk about you like one.”
Roger sighed, frustrated with me. “Sasha, I don’t control how people talk about me. I’d rather they praise me than resent me. And they praise me because I praise them. DAM is a supportive environment, and we expect that level of support from everyone here, including you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s the farthest thing from a threat.” He took a long drink of water. The ice clinked in his glass. “Everyone here would be grateful if you recognized how fortunate you are to be here. You were not in an ideal situation, with your men. With the news stories about you. And we’re willing to remake your reputation from the ground up.”
I didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, especially not to him with his inflated notions of grandeur. “You must know that DAM won’t change how anyone thinks. That father won’t become any less bigoted because DAM reminds him he loves his son.”
“Worst-case scenario, Sasha: it doesn’t. Worst case he sees the pain he might cause and sends the message anyway, the sadist. But at least he had to think about it. At least he knows the consequences of his actions. Because that’s the problem, now: everyone has all these thoughts and ideas and they spread them without considering whether they might hurt someone else. Maybe we can’t unracist the racists. Maybe we can’t unsexist the sexists. But we can keep their words out of my head. Out of my employees’ heads. Out of yours. You’re telling me you wouldn’t want that man to know how his comments might hurt him? Imagine he sees he might lose his job. That he might be racked with shame over it. That people might troll him just as hard as he trolls you. Maybe he decides it’s not worth it. Doesn’t that sound like a much better life?”
I drank the remains of my wine. “Then we would never have met.”
He refilled my glass, then lifted his. “Cheers. To the world where we never met.”
In my apartment, I read over texts from Dyson. From what I could gather, the attack on the bus helped him convince the remaining men to stick around—he fed them an Us Against the World narrative that modestly deepened their commitment. But without me there to offer a comforting and stable unified front, Dyson’s control over the men had begun to crumble. Even through text, I could sense his desperation and fear.
He texted: What’s happening?
He texted: I just want to check in with you.
He texted: To see how you’re doing.
He texted: To tell you again how sorry
