“What would you like to do, Blair? What do you love?”
“My father,” he said. “My father was a reporter.”
Sasha’s voice addressed the crowd: “Can anyone tell me what Blair is doing?”
Hands waved anemone-like. A Gray stood. “Deflection,” he said.
“Perfect,” said Sasha. “Blair is deflecting the question. It’s quite normal. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not used to being honest. Blair: Do you live alone?”
“I don’t see why that—”
“That’s a yes.”
Everyone laughed.
She said, “What happens when we live alone?”
A Yellow stood: “When we live alone we lie to ourselves.”
“Exactly,” she said. “When we live alone. We lie to ourselves. There’s no one to keep us honest. Keep. Us. Honest. Makes it sound like a burden—like honesty is some kind of punishment. When the truth is, we punish ourselves when we’re dishonest. Remember: how we act in the night infects how we live in the light.”
Together, everyone said, “How we act in the night infects how we live in the light.”
“How we act in the night infects how we live in the light.”
“How we act in the night infects how we live in the light.”
“How we act in the night infects how we live in the light.”
As they chanted, Blair watched the screen for another picture of Dyson. The slideshow started over: Sasha in the middle of a row of men; men building sheds; man feeding baby. But the photo of Dyson did not reappear. The slideshow cut from Sasha over the kneeling man to Sasha cutting a ribbon, as if Dyson had never existed.
“Blair,” Sasha said. “You have so much to learn about yourself. But you’re in good hands—the best hands. You are in ours.”
Randy dipped over to the microphone. “What are you thinking, Sasha?”
“He might benefit from a chamber,” she said.
“You think he’s ready for that?” Randy asked.
“No one’s ready until they’re ready,” she said.
Blair tried to laugh off her words. Was she sentencing him to something?
She said, “I need volunteers. Men who aren’t afraid to fail.”
The chosen ascended the escalator. Two Yellows, two Grays, two Pinks, and a Blue.
“Thank her,” Randy whispered.
“For putting me in a chamber?” Blair muttered.
“He says thank you,” Randy said into the microphone.
“And thank you, Blair, for trusting us with your growth.”
The volunteers waited behind them, holding hands.
They entered a store called CHAMBERS. Sasha’s voice echoed through the mall—interrupted by applause—but the walls of the store silenced her. Blair’s heartbeat ticked in his neck.
“Just tell me what we’re doing,” said Blair.
“This environment is totally safe,” Randy said.
“It’s a challenge,” said one of the Pinks.
“To test your competency,” said the Blue.
“It brings people together,” Randy added. “It’s fun.”
“Nothing about this sounds fun,” Blair said.
“We challenge each other,” said Randy. “Learn through team-building exercises. Remember our conversation? About saying yes?”
“Just because it worked for you doesn’t mean—”
“Sherlock’s Library fine with everyone?” Randy asked. The men nodded.
Blair’s legs were rubbery. The other men showed no signs of fear. Only anticipation bordering on joy. Blair tried to comfort himself by envisioning his future audience. He’d be the first to write about the Atmospherian chambers. It would bring him the attention he deserved—No, he thought, it would bring Dyson the attention he deserved.
Steel doors studded the walls of the hallway. Above the doors, placards read Jobs’ Garage or Chaplin’s Factory Line or Zuckerberg’s Dorm or The Locker Room. At Sherlock’s Library, Randy gripped the handle with both hands and pedaled backwards, urged them inside. The room had been transformed into an elaborate library: a fireplace featuring fake crackling logs, a wide mahogany desk, and a bookshelf stretching the length of one wall. A Yellow lounged on a psychiatrist’s couch. A Blue sat stiffly in a tall-backed chair, puffing a pipe.
“Who’s done this one before?”
Two men raised their hands. Randy asked them to leave. They claimed they’d forgotten the answers, but Randy couldn’t risk any shortcuts. He locked the rest of them inside.
Blair’s father used to punish him by locking him in a bathroom. Although his mother normally let him out after ten or so minutes, there was one weekend when she went to her sister’s house and Blair was trapped in the bathroom overnight. He said nothing all night, worried he’d receive a worse punishment if he cried for help. In the morning, his father found him huddled in the tub. He laughed at Blair—What the hell are you doing in here?—as if he hadn’t been the one to lock him inside. This room returned Blair to that room. He sat on a desk chair, now, one leg tucked to his chest, tapping his fingers on the armrest, inhaling and exhaling deliberately to fend off a panic attack.
Randy’s eyes showed through a thin hatch on the door. He said, “You six men have infiltrated the personal library of the world’s greatest detective: Sherlock Holmes. His vigilante detective work has undermined the authority of Scotland Yard. You have been sent here by Scotland Yard to gather dirt on Holmes in the hopes of sullying his reputation. But he anticipated your arrival. A slow-acting poison gas is drifting into the room. You will be knocked unconscious if you inhale it for more than an hour.”
Steam wafted out of a vent in the corner.
“Mr. Holmes’s design is imperfect. The library is riddled with clues that will facilitate your escape. You must learn to see what the great detective cannot—and you must hurry.” Randy shut the hatch. Above the door, a digital timer lit up at 60:00, started counting down.
“What the fuck is this?” Blair asked.
“It’s Sherlock’s Library,” said the man on the couch.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” said the Blue. His attempted British came out Southern.
Blair pounded the door, begging Randy to let them out.
A Yellow said, “Jesus, buddy, it’s a game.”
“They’re piping in poison!” Blair shouted.
“It’s steam,” said the Blue. He put his mouth to the vent. “Cherry flavored.”
“I need to get out of here,” Blair said.
“Then you
