The room had eight desks, arrayed around a central octagonal column, which stretched from floor to ceiling and was covered in mirror plating. Young people dressed like Melissa labored away with simple black ballpoint pens, carefully writing in white folders that bore little thumbnail photographs of people. They sometimes closed the folders again to look at the photos, and then resumed writing.

Each photo was perhaps 4 inches by 4 inches, and they seemed to be headshots.

The desks were made of white formica and had a black tray with a little white sign that read "IN." The also featured a white tray with a little white sign that read "OUT," and a small indentation where a ballpoint pen could rest.

"Well," said Maryanne, "here you are." She gestured toward one of the two empty desks.

"Here I am," said Melissa, as cheerfully as she could. She sat down in her new chair, which was actually sort of a giant modified beanbag. It was incredibly comfortable. There were fifteen folders in her inbox.

"Now what?" asked Melissa, as politely as she could.

"Now you work," said Maryanne. "Look at the photos, and then write whatever you'd like. Good luck."

Maryanne walked up to the mirrored pillar and opened up a door in its side. She vanished.

Melissa picked up a folder, and picked up the pen. The folder had a photo on the cover that looked like this:

"Huh," said Melissa. "Hey," she said, calling over to the boy at the desk next to hers. "What are we supposed to be writing here?"

The boy looked at her. He was about 21 or 22, with straight black hair and the palest complexion she'd ever seen. He smiled at her. "That's sort of for you to determine. I still haven't figured out what we're looking for. Here, look at this."

He tossed over a folder.

"It's not done," he said. "But this is how I do them."

Hey! I'm not a bad guy, but I get into the occasional drug-related scrap now and again. You know, I'm studying to be an astrophysicist, but that doesn't stop me from getting fucking loaded now and again. You like how I combined the streetwise edge of "fucking loaded" with the educated-class qualifier "now and again"? Yeah, I bet you do, bitch. The beauty of astrophysics is that you can wrestle with some of the most enduring and powerful mysteries of the universe in a way that feels tangible. You can render the unfathomable in terms that are almost concrete, even if they are just numbers dancing across paper. It's entirely unlike getting out on the floor when the DJ is spinning some hard shit and just dancing until you're dizzy with sweat and energy, dancing until you've surrendered all essence of yourself to the music which permeates every cell of your being. It's the opposite of that. You need both to live.

"Wow," said Melissa. "I liked that."

"Thanks," said the boy. "I hope Maryanne wasn't watching that. There's always a chance she's watching whatever you're doing. We're not supposed to talk."

He was trying to sound cool, but there was a tablespoon of fear in his voice.

Maryanne stepped out of the column, and led the boy away. He shot Melissa a smile over his shoulder, but he looked frightened. Maryanne was back in minutes, and stepped into the pillar without even looking in Melissa's direction.

Melissa looked back at her folder. She took the cap off her pen. The interior of the folder was lined, the way paper is lined when you're teaching elementary-school children how to write cursive. There were so many rules she might be breaking. There was so much she might be doing wrong. She touched the pen to the paper, and watched it bleed a little black dot of ink into the wood-pulp fiber. "Christ," she thought, "this is all so ordinary. I feel like I might be taking a blue book exam in college."

She almost wrote "I'm." Then she decided to write differently.

Short, dark hair. Warm eyes, and full lips. Shy, but confident. 1977: born. 1980: an accident involving a tumble down the basement stairs. No brain damage, but the parents are worried and protective ever after. 1984: builds a Lego city that shows real promise. It is zoned into residential, commercial and industrial districts. The police stations are clustered around the poor neighborhood, to keep the locals from causing trouble. There are warehouses and depots for the trucks that bring in the produce and durable goods purchased by the little yellow men and women. 1984: brother destroys Lego city, touching off a feud that continues to this day. 1986: Mom killed in car accident. Rage, and an inexplicable feeling of lingering guilt. 1992: First boyfriend - jerk. Fingering is prevented. 1994: Second boyfriend: also a jerk, but gorgeous, athletic, blond - a God. Sexual intercourse. A world of guilt and shame. 1995: Admitted to MIT. Lesbian experimentation. First LSD experience. Real questioning of religious values imparted from childhood. 1996: Experimentation ends. A traditional boy in her life. A model for a city that has been built up for years is finally finished. Legos. Cork board. Toothpicks. LEDs. Sandpaper. Little railroad trees. Her friends call it crazy, but some of them stare at it for 10 or 20 minutes a time. It is a real metropolis. 1999: Graduation with a degree in political science.

Melissa shut the folder, and put it in the "OUT" tray. A few moments passed, and she decided to go back and check her work. When she opened the folder, there was red writing in it:

She's dead. That should be noted in 1984. The feud is over. She's dead. Otherwise, good.

"Christ," muttered Melissa, shaking her head. "This is going to be weird."

Melissa worked for another four-and-a-half hours until her inbox was cleared. Then she left.

chapter ten: sharing a view >>>