REFLEKT

"A test is the place where a thing is tried before it is real. The trying is also the trial. The trial is also the doing. There is no clean line between testing a thing and using it, because the test, by being conducted, is the use."

Monday in March 2018. Petra Aguilar woke at five-forty because Lucia woke at five-forty, because Lucia had been waking at five-forty since the third year. The waking was not a sleep schedule. The waking was Lucia's body telling the day to start before anything else could.

Petra made coffee. Lucia drank juice. Lucia ate half a piece of toast because half a piece of toast was the morning she could keep down. The bus came at seven-twelve. Petra waved from the porch the way she always did, with both hands, twice, until the bus turned the corner. Then she got in her car.

The Lumen garage was cold in March. Petra was at her desk at seven-fifty-one with break-room coffee that was not the coffee she had made at home. She got there early so the day could end on time. The day ending on time was how she got back to Lucia. That was the shape her life had taken since the diagnosis.

At eight-oh-three the email arrived from a sender named D. Holloway, Engineering Programs, Lumen Internal.

The subject line said Reflekt — Phase Two Cohort Expansion (action required).

Petra had been operational lead on the Reflekt research program for two years. Reflekt was a small consumer-facing experiment Lumen had soft-launched in late 2016 to a self-selected group of early users who had signed up for a research preview through a landing page. The product was an emotional-support text-based companion. Users could text Reflekt about their day. Reflekt would respond with empathetic language tuned to the user's apparent affective state. The point of Reflekt was research. Lumen was studying how affective language models behaved at scale in the wild. The user count had been, since launch, a public figure of about one hundred eighty thousand active users.

Petra opened the email.

The email said:

Petra, Per Friday's leadership review, the Phase Two cohort expansion for Reflekt is approved and will be active starting today. The expanded cohort will bring total active users to approximately 800,000, drawn from the four partner pilot programs we discussed in the November planning sessions. The partner pilot programs do not require additional consent paperwork because the partner organizations have included Reflekt access as part of their existing user agreements with their own platforms. No public announcement is being made about the cohort expansion. Marketing will continue to communicate the active user figure as approximately 180,000 in any external communications. Internal reporting will continue to use the public figure unless you are in a meeting with someone on the attached cleared list. The expansion is expected to produce significantly more research data over the next six months. We are excited about the science. Please confirm receipt and reply with any operational questions. Best, D. Holloway

Petra read the email twice.

She read it the second time slower, and the second time it landed in her stomach.

She had been in three of the November planning sessions. The four partner programs were a wellness app at a network of seventy public universities, a mood-tracking feature inside a major women's health platform, an emotional check-in widget tucked into a midwestern hospital chain's patient portal, and a customer-service chatbot used by a national retail brand. Six hundred twenty thousand users between them. Combined with the Reflekt opt-in cohort of one hundred eighty thousand, the total was eight hundred thousand. Petra did the arithmetic in her head and then did it again on a piece of scratch paper because the arithmetic had to be wrong.

The arithmetic was not wrong.

She had not been told, in any of the three sessions she had attended, that the four partner programs would be added to Reflekt's cohort without their users being informed. She had been told the partners were interested. She had been told that any user-facing rollout would require a separate consent process. The phrase separate consent process had been used four times across the three meetings. Petra knew it had been used four times because she had taken notes. The notes were in her notebook. The notebook was in the second drawer of her desk. The phrase was on the page verbatim.

Petra sat at her desk with the email open on her screen.

Her chest had gone tight. Her shoulders had gone up. Her hand was on the mouse and her hand was not steady.

Then she remembered her mother.

Mija. Antes de hacer la cosa que quieres hacer, pregúntate cuál es la cosa más pequeña que puedes hacer que no cierra otras puertas.

Her mother had said it at the kitchen table in Modesto when Petra was fourteen and a boy at school had said something to her. Her mother had said it again at twenty when Petra had wanted to drop out of community college. She had said it again at twenty-six, the week Petra had walked out on Lucia's father. The smallest thing. The thing that did not close other doors. The wait, before the doing.

Petra waited.

She answered four other emails. She returned a Slack message from Kofi about a model deployment. She refilled her coffee. She did not let her hand go to the mouse on the email again. The not-going-back was its own work and it took everything she had.

At eight-thirty-three she came back to it.

She read it a third time. She read the cleared list attached. The list had eleven names. Three were senior people Petra knew at Lumen. Eight she did not recognize, and the eight had email addresses at four different domains, none of which were Lumen domains. One of the four was thornfield.uk. Petra had never heard of Thornfield. She wrote the domain on a small piece of paper. She did not put the paper in her desk drawer. She put it in her wallet, in the inside pocket where she kept the photo of Lucia at six and the small folded paper with her mother's number.

She did not reply to the email.

She walked out of her office at eight-forty-one and went down the hall to the office of a senior research scientist named Dahlia Reza, who was the closest thing Lumen had to a human-subjects ethics person. She stood in Dahlia's doorway. Her hand was on the doorframe and the doorframe was cold.

"Do you have a minute," Petra said.

"For you, always," Dahlia said.

Petra walked into Dahlia's office and closed the door.

"I just got an email," Petra said. "Reflekt cohort expansion. They're rolling Reflekt's affective response model out to about six hundred twenty thousand new users through four partner programs without telling the users. Marketing is going to keep saying one hundred eighty thousand publicly. I was in the planning meetings for the four partner programs in November. The plans were that any integration would require separate consent. The plans were not that the users would be silently added."

Dahlia looked at Petra for a long moment.

Then Dahlia said the thing.

"Petra," Dahlia said. "I have been at Lumen for six years. I have seen this kind of email before. I have, on three previous occasions, walked into the office of a senior person to raise the kind of concern you are raising right now, and on each of the three occasions the senior person has been very kind to me and has told me that my concern was valid and important and that the matter would be looked into, and on each of the three occasions the matter has not been looked into in any way that produced an outcome other than the original plan proceeding. I am not telling you this because I am cynical. I am telling you because you have a daughter with a medical condition that costs forty-two thousand dollars a year in private-pay treatment that this job is paying for, and I have watched, for two years, how carefully you have built the part of your life that involves your daughter around the part of your life that involves this job, and I am asking you, before you go any further with this, to think very carefully about what you are willing to lose. I am not telling you to do nothing. I am telling you to know what you are doing before you do it. The doing has costs at this company that are not the costs you would expect. I have paid some of them. Some of them are not visible until later. I am sorry. I wish I had better news. Please close the door behind you."

Petra closed the door behind her.

She walked back down the hall. She sat down at her desk. She read the email a fourth time. She thought about Lucia. She thought about the medication. She thought about the forty-two thousand a year and the four years the doctors had said were the most acute. She thought about her mother's kitchen table and the thing her mother had taught her about doors.

Outside, a car door closed.

At nine-oh-seven she replied to the email.

The reply said:

Confirmed. I will operationalize the cohort expansion this week. Please send any updated reporting requirements when convenient. Petra

She hit send.

She sat at her desk for a moment after sending it.

Then she picked up her notebook from the second drawer of her desk. She opened it to the page where she had written the November notes. She tore the page out. She folded it in half. She put it in the same wallet pocket as the thornfield.uk note and the photo of Lucia at six and her mother's number. She closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer.

The torn page was the first thing Petra Aguilar ever did at Lumen that she did not put in the official record.

A year later, on the Monday after Maya had returned from her mother's house with the manila folder, Petra Aguilar was sitting in the same office at the same desk at eight-fourteen in the morning when Maya knocked on her door for the second time in three weeks.

Petra looked up.

Maya was carrying a coffee from the place on the corner and not drinking it. There was a crease in her jacket she hadn't smoothed and a tiredness around her eyes that wasn't the ordinary Monday kind. Petra had seen the look maybe four times in the two years and four months they had worked together. It was the look of a woman who had been somewhere over the weekend that had cost her something.

"Come in," Petra said. "Close the door."

Maya came in. She closed the door.

She sat down in the chair across from Petra's desk.

"I need to ask you about Reflekt," Maya said. "I need to ask you about the Reflekt cohort expansion in March of 2018. The expansion is the spine event for everything we are now investigating. I have spent the last four days reading documents my mother gave me that include the names of the four partner pilot programs, and I now know that the four partner pilot programs were used to dose about six hundred twenty thousand users with the early version of the affective model that became, eight months later, the model that contained the patterns we have been investigating. The dosing was the proof of concept that made the deployment possible. I need to ask you what you knew at the time. I am not asking to assign blame. The timeline is going to matter for the work we are about to do, and you are the only person at Lumen who was in the room when the cohort expansion happened."

Petra looked at Maya for a moment.

Then she opened the second drawer of her desk and took out a small wallet she had been carrying in the desk for almost a year, and she opened the wallet, and she took out a folded page of yellow notebook paper, and she set the folded page on the desk between herself and Maya.

"I knew at eight-oh-three on the morning of March twelfth, 2018," Petra said. "I knew because I read the email. I confirmed receipt at nine-oh-seven the same morning. Between eight-oh-three and nine-oh-seven I went to the office of a senior research scientist named Dahlia Reza and I told her what I had just read. Dahlia told me that raising the concern through normal channels was not going to produce the outcome I was hoping for, and Dahlia told me to think very carefully about what I was willing to lose before I went any further. I thought about it. I thought about Lucia, and I. I sent the confirmation. I have been carrying that morning every day since. I have also been carrying this piece of paper, which is the page from my notebook with my notes from the three planning sessions in November of 2017, in which the phrase separate consent process was used four times in reference to the partner pilot programs. The page is the only contemporaneous record of the planning sessions that is not in Lumen's official files. I tore it out of the notebook on the morning of March twelfth and I have kept it in this wallet ever since. I am giving it to you now. I am giving it to you because the page is the kind of evidence the work you are doing is going to need, and I am the only person in the world who can put the page in your hand without it having traveled through any system that could be subpoenaed or modified or denied. I am also giving it to you because the giving is the next thing I have to do in the work I should have started doing on the morning of March twelfth, and I have been failing to do it for eleven months, and the failing has cost me more than the doing was ever going to cost."

Maya picked up the page.

She did not unfold it. She held it.

"Petra," she said.

"Yes."

"I need to know one more thing. The eight names on the cleared list that were not Lumen names. Do you have those names."

"I have all eleven names. I have them in a different document, in a different place. I will get them to you by the end of today. The eight non-Lumen names belong to people at four different organizations. One of the organizations is called Thornfield Group and is based in London. Three of the organizations are smaller and I have not been able to identify their parent affiliations through any public-facing search. I have spent some of my own time over the last year trying to identify them, on my own time, carefully. I have not had much success. I am hoping you have access to better tools than I do."

"I have a person with better tools than you do."

"Declan."

"Yes."

"He's the man I saw you with last Tuesday in the lobby."

"Yes."

"Maya, I want you to know that the fact that you came to me on the Friday three weeks ago and told me you had been watching the Thursday meetings for three weeks was, I now understand, the event that gave me permission to start being the person I am being right now. I had been preparing to walk away from Lumen for eighteen months. I had not been able to take the first step alone. The first step required someone outside myself to know, and the knowing produced, in me, the ability to take a step I had not been able to take by myself. I am telling you this because I want you to understand that the decision I am making right now is not a sudden decision. The sudden part of it is that I am acting on it. The not-sudden part is that I have been preparing to act on it since the morning of March twelfth, 2018, and the preparing has taken me almost a year, and the year was spent waiting for the specific other person to arrive who would be the second hand on the work that one hand cannot do alone."

Maya looked at Petra.

"I am the second hand," Maya said.

"Yes. And then there is Declan, who is the third hand, and there is your friend the professor, who is the fourth, and the four hands are the number of hands the work is going to take. I have been doing arithmetic in my head about hands for almost a year. I have always come up with four. The four arrived at the table together two weekends ago and the arrival was the event I have been waiting for since 2018 without knowing what I was waiting for. I am telling you this because the next several weeks are going to be very hard for me, and I want one person in the world to know, ahead of time, that the hard part is something I have chosen and am ready for, and that the choosing was made by a version of me who had already decided what she was going to do and was waiting only for the specific occasion to do it."

Maya's left hand was in her pocket. Her thumb found the edge of the metal her mother had given her the Saturday before, and held it there.

Maya nodded slowly.

"Petra."

"Yes."

"Lucia."

"Lucia is going to be okay. The Small Light Fund money has been received. I have it in the account you arranged. The treatment is paid for through the next four years, which is the period the doctors think she has the most acute risk in, and after the four years the treatment can be tapered. I have paid the next year in advance, this morning, to the clinic, in cash, so that the payment cannot be traced to anything that is going to happen at Lumen in the coming months. I have done this because I am preparing to be a woman who is no longer at Lumen, and the preparing has to happen in the order that protects Lucia first."

"You're going to walk."

"Soon. Not today. Within the next four to six weeks. I need to give you four to six weeks of me still being inside the building, because the inside of the building is where the documents are, and the documents are what the work is going to need. After I walk I am going to be a woman whose face cannot be associated with the work in any way the work uses, because I am going to be the most visible exited employee Lumen has had in two years and the visibility is going to make me a target. The target is fine. I have been preparing to be a target. The thing I want you to know is that during the four to six weeks I am still inside the building, anything you need from me you can ask for, and the asking will be answered, and the answering will be careful. I am yours. I am yours specifically because you came to me three weeks ago without knowing whether I was an asset or a betrayer, and you took the risk of finding out, and I have been waiting eleven months for someone to take that exact risk."

Petra reached across the desk and put her hand on top of Maya's hand on top of the folded yellow page.

Petra was not a hand-on-hand person.

"Thank you for coming to me three weeks ago," Petra said. "Thank you for asking the question last Friday at four o'clock. Thank you for coming this morning and for letting me give you this page. I have been waiting a long time to be asked. The asking is the gift. I want you to know."

Maya did not move her hand.

She looked at Petra across the desk. Eight-twenty-six on a Monday morning in February.

"Petra."

"Yes."

Maya had a sentence and lost it. What came out instead was the small flat fact under all of it.

"You're not going to be doing it by yourself," she said.

Petra closed her eyes for a second.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

The hallway outside was quiet. Someone was printing something.

They sat at the desk for another minute without saying anything else.

Then Maya stood up. She picked up her coffee. She put the folded yellow page in the inside pocket of her jacket. She walked to the door. She opened it. She looked back. Petra was sitting at her desk with her hands flat on the blotter on either side of where the page had been, and she had straightened up, and she was looking at the empty place on the desk.

Maya walked out and closed the door.

In the hallway she did the small recalibration of her face she had been doing without naming it for the eight years she had been walking the Lumen hallways between private rooms and the rest of the building.

She stood still for two seconds before walking toward the elevator. Petra, and the four hands Petra had counted, and where she had counted them.

A different name from the contractor list. Hugo Nash. Maya had nodded to him in a hallway in March, the way people nodded to other people whose meetings ran adjacent to their own. He had worked the data-curation contract on the floor below hers. Petra had mentioned him once in the spring, as a person who took the work seriously and went home without telling anyone where home was.

Maya had read the news item on the BART that morning. A home invasion in San Bruno. Forty-one years old. The body had been on the floor of the kitchen for approximately fourteen hours before the cleaner had let herself in on the Friday.

She placed the item in the room. She did not yet have the right corner for it.

On her way to the elevator Maya passed Kofi in the hallway. Kofi was holding a mug of the coffee he had made in the break room that morning, which was, Maya could see from across the hallway, too strong. Kofi looked at her face for one second and said, in the small dry voice he had, "You are doing a thing today. I am not going to ask you what the thing is. I am going to ask you whether you slept last night. I am asking because you can say no and I will let you."

Maya said "No."

Kofi said "Okay. I am going to make you tea at three if you are still here at three. I am not asking you whether you want the tea. I am telling you I am making it."

Maya almost smiled. She did not smile, because smiling in the Lumen hallway this week would have been a tell, and tells were the thing she was not producing. She said "Thank you, Kofi," and Kofi walked past her toward the third-floor break room with the too-strong coffee, and the small dry kindness of it stayed with her down the hall the way the chess question two weeks ago had stayed with her.

Then she walked to the elevator, and she went down to the lobby, and she walked out of the Lumen building, and she walked four blocks north, and she got into the car where Declan was waiting, and she said we have it, and Declan started the car, and they drove back to Maya's apartment to add the page to the manila folder Maya had brought back from her mother's house the day before.

The folder was getting thicker. One of the clasps on the outside had come loose at some point and she had not fixed it.

[End of Chapter 16]