Chapter 1
How long does it take to convince a person they’re dead?
In Eve’s experience, one month. In one month, having the entire internet insist that you’re dead will go from shocking, to funny, to frustrating, detour back to funny, before ultimately turning into the sort of bone-deep existential doubt usually only broached by philosophy bros on mushrooms. I think, therefore I am, but the world thinks I am not.
In the mornings, Eve wakes alone. The apartment is empty, too quiet.
The upstairs neighbors have been on sabbatical in Paris, so there are no footsteps.
When Eve goes outside, she paces along Grand Street to the water, or else leaves Williamsburg, takes the L to Manhattan, and walks along the Hudson past the crumbling piers and the private helicopters, and when people see her, they double take, and they hold up their phones to capture her—like she is a ghost.
Danny wants time alone with his dad, who is shy at the best of times, who wants, though he’d never ask for it, uninterrupted time with his son. Besides, Danny says—Eve’s label wants to do damage control, and he does not want to stand in the way of her career.
“If spending my days posting proof-of-life social content is what my career requires,” she says, “I’m not sure it’s a career I want.”
“You can come out if he gets really bad.”
“You’ll tell me when?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
Eve is not convinced. Maybe because she knows Danny, knows how averse he is to admitting his needs. Or maybe it’s because, when a whole internet full of people keep telling you that you’re dead, you are no longer convinced of anything.