The driver said, “There’s a pharmaceutical plant half a mile north. They do a controlled release this time every day.” He gagged dramatically. “You can really taste it.”
“It’s nothing,” Blair said.
“Sasha takes care of us. That’s why we stay indoors,” the driver said.
“I’m excited to meet her,” Blair said.
The driver found this funny. “Let’s get inside.”
Three years earlier, Sasha Marcus had lobbied the state to fund The Atmosphere’s move to this site. It required a spacious, controlled environment, she argued, to ensure their clients the most responsible treatment. The Atmosphere performed a public good, after all. Many members had families, friends, jobs, outside of The Atmosphere. They had every reason to leave—though very few did—and Blair suspected they were forced to stay. He didn’t plan to be there any longer than two days. One weekend with a cult was plenty of time to take a few photos, record conversations, to corner Sasha and demand she tell him how Dyson had actually died.
Three weeks ago, Blair received a letter claiming Dyson had been murdered by Sasha in a power grab. There was no return address. No name at the bottom. But its directives were clear: Expose The Atmosphere. Expose Sasha Marcus. Dyson deserved justice—and peace. Blair was proud to be the one to do these things.
At the mall’s entrance, two men in jeans and gray T-shirts reading Atmospherians opened the doors. A tall wooden desk split this area from a department store behind it. Inside the store, clothing racks and tables and displays and mannequins had been replaced by men in monochrome tracksuits of different colors. They appeared sickly under harsh yellow light—malnourished, an accusation the letter had made. Paired together, they nodded vigorously, counting on their fingers as if debating subjects of grave importance. Blair angled his ear toward the store to make out their words.
A receptionist stepped into the space between him and the other men. He placed a fizzing orange drink in Blair’s hand. “For your jet lag,” he said. “Full of electrolytes, complex carbs, everything you need to return to yourself.”
“Plain water would be fine.”
“This is water!” The receptionist winked. “Plus something else.”
Blair sipped. He brushed the froth off his lip. “You can’t give me water?”
“You need to finish your first drink. Gluttony breeds ingratitude.”
Blair chugged the glass, his neck pumping as the orange liquid spilled over his chin.
“Very impressive,” the receptionist said. He slipped into a side door, returned with a bottle of water. “Your reward,” he said. “That was very impressive, indeed.”
Blair spent an hour scrunched in a stiff, cushioned chair. Hung on the walls of the waiting room were posters of men knitting sweaters, drinking tea, petting cats, doing yoga, jogging. Discover the Self You’ve Denied Yourself, they read; The Atmosphere was below that. Every ten minutes, one of the receptionists would spray and wipe down the glass entrance doors, alternating each time. Softly bombastic music played through the speakers, drifting between jagged intensity and shallow calms. It reminded him of an action movie soundtrack.
The receptionists encouraged Blair to read the aged magazines fanned across the coffee table. “There are some excellent profiles of Sasha.” Blair flipped through a Time from the previous year. Everything but Sasha’s profile spread had been torn out of the issue. Same for the other magazines.
Blair knew better than to brush off the receptionists and the drink and the magazines as harmless idiosyncrasies. He prided himself on noticing threats that others ignored. Most people never questioned the world, never poked holes in its design. They preferred to vilify those who made careers out of poking such holes. He fancied himself a truth teller. Unofficially: a reporter. He ran a Facebook page called The Pure Source, where he posted videos debunking and verifying conspiracies across the political spectrum: POW-MIA (disproven), the Koch Foundation funding protestors (proven), climate change denial (disproven), 9/11 (proven and disproven). A small squadron of followers returned to his page regularly, suggesting stories for him to investigate and incoherently debating in the comments. His traffic had been climbing over the last few months thanks to a pair of undercover videos: He had exposed a racist restaurant owner and a small chapter of socialists in small-town Oregon. The recent success had made him confident about an Atmospherians story—and excited him about the career prospects that would follow. The week prior, he had lost his cashier gig to a self-checkout machine. Rent was a month late—and only getting later. If done right, though, a story on the Atmospherians—an exposé—would net him enough to cover rent for a year, and likely lead to more lucrative work.
He hefted his backpack onto his lap and unzipped it just wide enough to remove a small spiral notebook. Miniature cameras, microphones, and his laptop gave the bag its bulk. The receptionist glanced at him. He slipped the backpack under his chair. He’d signed a contract agreeing not to make any visual or audio recordings.
Past journalists had visited The Atmosphere and left with puff pieces highlighting the hardship Sasha had overcome to build the program. In slick documentaries, she led filmmakers around the exterior of the mall; she allowed a brief glimpse into the carpentry warehouse where men built the Atmospherian shed kits that helped fund the program. On camera, she let free a single, poignant tear when asked about Dyson. The interviewers never challenged her version of the events: Dyson suffered a heart attack while swimming at The Atmosphere’s community pond. Attempts to recover his body by law enforcement proved unsuccessful; the pond was magnitudes deeper than originally assumed.
Blair angled his body away from the receptionists and scribbled in his notebook:
• Why give mysterious drink—who profits?
• Why not show me my room?
• What is happening in dept. store?
• Receptionists don’t give names—keep me guessing, off-balance?
A thin man of medium height stood before him with his hands clasped. He wore a shiny
