Ever since then the teacher goes at seven every day to his virtual work platform. He enters the building, which, across five floors, features little soundproof units reminiscent of animal cages. There’s space for an unbelievable three thousand people, and the cost per day is negligible. Inside the boxes, which can also be rented by the month, is enough room to sit on the comfy beanbag chair, or to stand or run on a treadmill. The middle-aged teacher enters his box. Puts on his glasses. There’s no window inside, but there are artificial smells and a climate control system you can adjust yourself. “So, off we go,” says the middle-aged teacher shortly after seven, and upon his orders finds himself in a flat in the south of the city. Outside the windows, trees; inside, nice wood floors and even a fireplace. His girlfriend has prepared breakfast. They eat. The girlfriend is six months pregnant. The nursery is painted in pastel colors. The flat consists of exactly what a middle-class couple—he a teacher, she a speech therapist—could have afforded in the nineties of the previous century. There’s a little garden. After breakfast the two head together to the tube station, just a short distance away. They hop on different train lines, kissing each other goodbye. “See you tonight, darling.” Says the woman. “I love you.” Says the teacher, feeling the love. The feeling stays with him during his ride, keeps him smiling. The passengers around him read paper newspapers, some doze off. Then the teacher arrives at his old school. In the teachers’ lounge. Coffee, conversation, the bell, class begins. The teacher teaches for six long hours. During the lunch break he goes out and buys a limp salad, tries to mediate fights on the playground, and feels bored at his lectern. Bored when he is confronted by idiocy. The algorithm changes the lighting conditions over the course of the day. Creates the smell of sweaty kids and autumn foliage, the flickering of lights, the sirens of fire drills, the scent of blood when breaking up fights between boys and of coffee during breaks. In the afternoons the middle-aged teacher rides back to his place in the south of the city. Sometimes the place smells of bread pudding, and it always smells of his girlfriend. Even sex with her feels good. Late in the afternoon he turns off the light. Like everyone around him. Like thousands in the city who recreate their boring, peaceful past lives in virtual spaces. Back when they still had a function. Back when they had larger flats and the streets seemed wider. Millions are happy in their old daily job routines in insurance companies, banks, law offices, in supermarkets and warehouses. They have arguments, financial worries, stress with colleagues. While they are immersed in their virtual jobs, their bodies create energy with which cryptocurrency is mined and algorithms speculate on commodities and CO2 markets. Hilarious, right? And when they put out the lights, they all take off their glasses. They’re not as depressed as they were at the start. No longer beaten down when they exit their VR rooms and head into the street, toward home, in what today is referred to as home. They know it’s just for a short time, a night, and then they can go back to their proper life.