Noma was right. At the Corporation, I would lose myself in a sea of other people like me. Liberal arts grads searching for meaning through work. Some, exposed to the evils of the dark web, convinced themselves it was their responsibility to keep the internet clean: not just from dick pics, but from more serious offenses, like hate-group schemes and child pornography. Honorable work, but psychologically damaging. And to what end? So the Corporation could serve ads to preteens? Corporation employees lined Valencia Street each morning, waiting for the shuttle, united by their miserable but well-paid vibe. They upgraded their hotel rooms and their plane seats to counteract the misery, bought two-hundred-dollar T-shirts and bamboo sunglasses in failed attempts to block out the voices in their heads that screamed, Get me the fuck out of here, this isn’t what we agreed, and on the shuttle they stared wistfully out the window, at the sign that says “Santa Cruz This Way,” dreaming about being on the beach, reading a novel they had so far only photographed and shared, never opened.