Says: “We need to get into the habit of locking the door,” and while delivering this line feels like one of those actresses with a white blouse, wild hair, and a breechloader. She distinguishes between we and you. Of all the unpleasant attributes that used to characterize the adults in Rochdale and Liverpool, racism had always been the most disgusting to her. Losers who sneered at other losers. It seems as if stalagmites should have grown in the hall. It seems as if, with the homeless outside their door, the cuteness of the location has disappeared. Obviously nobody here thinks: we’re sitting in the midst of totally cute surroundings. They just have a feeling. That their garden outside is in danger; same for the solar panels. That they can’t go out in their underwear anymore to drink the first coffee of the day. That they should lock the door like—people. That’s how it starts, acting like a capitalist, becoming a nationalist, a right-wing asshole, with vulgar fears about your meager belongings. That you would like to add to, protect, and celebrate. Would we have to let them, to sleep here? Don thinks, but doesn’t voice her thought because she’s afraid the others might be open to it and they’d have strange men sitting here at the table. “I’m going over to see the nerds,” says Don. “Anybody want to come with?” They all come along happily. They lock the door with much care. Outside there’s no wind. The yellow light of the city is reflected back by the sky, or perhaps there’s a full moon behind the clouds. It has rained again. The ground won’t absorb the water any longer; there’s no snow in the northern hemisphere.

It’s always something.

The

FRIENDS

For example are in a state of alarm. On the verge of complete meltdown. “Soon they’ll be licking the walls,” says Karen upon seeing the nerds. Although they have different skin colors and body types, the hackers resemble each other in their unhealthy, nervous vibe. They’ve barely left the building for days, eaten cold pizza from cardboard boxes, not slept, not washed. That still works at their age, as you can be sticky and dirty, exhausted and agitated, and nothing is off-putting about the shiny skin, the stringy hair, the rigid belief in being able to influence the world. The air in the room is filled with delusions of grandeur. “Spoofing doesn’t work, pass the hash check.” They hammer codes into their computers. Don rolls her eyes. Full of themselves, she thinks, so fucking full of themselves. “What are you guys doing anyway?” she asks Rachel, whose eyes are so infected she looks like a bunny in a spotlight.

Brilliant, Rachel seems to think. Boast. Alarm. Now.