The escort took the lead. “So, these two fit the standard profile for teen cybercrime in Georgia,” he began, gesturing at two printed portraits, both featuring names in bold print in the white space: Trevor Jenkins and Kurt Peters. “White, male, Libertarian, agnostic, decent grades. Forgettable in the real world, but menaces online. It’s mostly petty stuff. Spamming teachers they don’t like, distributing nude photographs of former girlfriends. Basically trolling gone a little too far. Good kids who need some guidance. “This one”—he jabbed his finger onto the asymmetrical nose of Trevor Jenkins—“could probably go to MIT if he just applied himself. Perfect SAT scores. He’ll probably just end up at GT, though.”

“I think you’re taking this Big Brother thing too literally,” Rick replied. Tilly kept her eyes on the escort’s finger, afraid to meet Rick’s conspiring eyes and erupt into laughter.

“So, are they our perps?” Tilly asked, still looking down.

“Probably not,” the escort stammered. “Like I said, these two are trolls. Everything they do is to stoke a specific reaction, namely, laughter among other white males. They don’t have any discernible political agenda, and they live in Augusta.”

“Then why are you telling us about them?” Rick asked.

The escort smiled, something Tilly hadn’t thought he was capable of. “Because this whole situation is pretty funny, if you ask me.”

“How so?” Tilly asked. She could already see a conspiratorial grin gliding across Rick’s face. Nothing brought black men together like shared contempt for their jobs.

“No offense, but who the fuck cares about Stone Mountain? It’s a theme park on the outskirts of Atlanta that got one shout-out in the ‘I Had a Dream’ speech. It has the largest bas-relief in the world, but only ten people in the world even know what a damn bas-relief is. Sure, the Klan has the occasional rally there, but politically, it’s dead. People go there to picnic and walk and have fitness boot camps so they can fit into their bridesmaid dresses. Stone Mountain Park could be any park.”

Tilly glanced at Rick. His grin had vanished entirely, replaced by the serenity of mutual recognition. I’m not the only one, Tilly knew him to be thinking. The only time she’d seen him look that at ease was when she’d mentioned that she’d once had a summer internship at a small record label in DC. He’d responded with that same look, right before badgering her for two hours, then months, about her experience. He’d had an internship at an Atlanta label, So So Def, she’d learned, along with his favorite So So Def song (“Just Kickin’ It”), his favorite music video (“Lean wit It, Rock wit It”), his favorite album cover (The Movement), and a dozen other extraneous facts. She wasn’t venturing down that road again. Bulk data—on anyone—was for the NSA. The FBI gathered evidence.