This, if anything, made me more uncomfortable. People who “don’t consider race or gender” sure seem to end up hiring almost all white guys, almost as if they’re absolutely considering race and gender. I didn’t say that, though. I tried to make the less confrontational argument.

“But aren’t you worried you’re going to make a product just for guys if only guys work here? Or that the culture might become unwelcome for other kinds of people? Or that you’ll end up doing something dumb because you have one dominant perspective?”

“Miranda, all of those things are legitimate concerns, but trust me when I say we’ve got to move fast here. Our first responsibility is to the problem.”

He said those words, “the problem,” like they were mentioned a lot at Altus.

“So I guess you also have questions for me?” I asked.

He did. I answered them. Thirty minutes in, he invited Tom, the HR guy from our Skype interview, in. He talked to us about company policy and secrecy and how they didn’t have to worry about hackers at Altus because almost nothing they did was actually on the internet.

All in all, it felt like the day was going really well.

And then Peter Petrawicki walked in.

“Miranda Beckwith!” His smile seemed warm and genuine. His hair, also, seemed authentically but artfully tousled. He wore a white short-sleeve crushed-cotton shirt and khaki slacks. He was tan and looked stronger and healthier than he had on TV. His smile, though, didn’t reach all the way to his eyes, and I felt my chances of getting a job at Altus dropping to very near zero percent.

“I almost never talk to candidates at your level before they’re officially hired, but I think you can understand why I might make an exception in your case.”

I sat silently, because I knew that was the safe choice, and also because I had no idea what to say.

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I was an asshole. An asshole and an idiot. I wanted all the wrong things, and I made the world a worse place while your friend was trying to make it a better place.”

Every second I stayed quiet made me feel like I was guilty, but all of the things popping into my head to say felt either confrontational or obsequious.

Dr. Sealy and Tom looked just about as comfortable as I felt. At least I wasn’t alone.

Finally, Peter continued, “I guess my question is, how much do you hate me?”

As soon as there was a single thought in my head, I said it: “I’m not good at hating. My brain makes excuses. It looks for reasons to forgive.” I realized I hadn’t been meeting his eyes, so I looked up at him. They were blue. Powder blue. I just Googled gemstones because I wanted to tell you exactly the color they were: They were the color of polished blue beryl.

I should have stopped right then. That was a good answer. It was honest and not dangerous. But then …

“I thought you wanted people to pay attention to you, and you’d found a way to make that happen. I never thought you cared much about what you were saying because you seemed too smart to believe any of it. I figured there was something sad inside of you that made you need that attention. Those followers.” My brain was shouting, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, but I kept going. “I still think that.”

Peter looked calm, like we were talking about the weather; Tom and Dr. Sealy both had looks of proper concern on their faces.

“But then it all went to shit and April died, and you, well, you vanished from that world. It felt like remorse to me, so even then I didn’t hate you. So, how much do I hate you? Not at all, but I used to pity you, and now I don’t anymore because now you’re doing something actually interesting.” I held his eyes as long as I could. Mercifully, he looked away for just a moment, allowing me to lean back in my chair. I hadn’t been aware that I’d leaned forward.

Peter looked around the room for a second. He pushed the rolling chair away from the conference room table and walked out of the room without saying a word.

I looked at Dr. Sealy. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I thought the best thing would be for me to be honest.”

To get to the dorms we walked across well-lit but rough ground. It didn’t feel like America; it felt like adventure. It also felt like that’s how they wanted it to feel. Dr. Sealy dropped me off with an appropriately contrite goodbye.

I entered the building into a common room with a bunch of couches and a big shared kitchen. I immediately spotted Paxton and Sid talking to some Altus guys. They seemed to be having a blast with it. I slunk past, thinking I hadn’t been noticed.

A few minutes into getting ready for bed in my little hotel room, though, someone knocked on my door.

There was no peephole, so I hastily re-dressed myself and opened the door to find Peter Petrawicki.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Um,” I said, not wanting to say yes, but also not sure I could say no.

“It’s fine, no, I was wrong to come.” And then he turned around and walked away.

I closed the door.

Thirty seconds later, there was another knock. At this point, I was feeling completely depleted.

Paxton and Sid stood at the door wide-eyed and silent.

“Hi, guys,” I said, resigned, walking away from the open door in tacit invitation.

“What the hell! Why was Peter Petrawicki just knocking on your door?!” Sid asked.

“I honestly don’t know. He didn’t tell me.” I sat down on the bed. “I guess he wanted to continue our discussion from my interview.”

“He was in your interview?” Paxton asked, a little quietly, leaning on the room’s desk.

I surprised myself by asking, “Do you guys know who I am?”

“You’re Miranda? You work in materials?” Sid volunteered.

“Also, I’m Miranda, one of April May’s best friends and founder and former CEO of the Som.”

It was quiet for a while before Sid said, “Fuuuuuuuck,” and sat down in the desk chair.

“Why would you even want to work here?” Paxton asked.

“Why do you want to work here?” It came out accusatory.

Sid stepped in, understanding me. “This place is going to change the world. You want to be a part of it. I get that. I’m sure that was a tough call for you, deciding to apply.”

“What did you say to Peter in your interview?” Paxton asked.

“He asked me how much I hated him,” I said, replaying the conversation in my head.

“And?”

“And I told him I pitied him. I told him I thought he was sad, and that I found his ideology not so much odious as boring.”

Their eyes got big.

“I didn’t expect to see him! I didn’t prepare for it, he just popped in. I have … emotions about that guy, OK!” I was getting loud. “I don’t know if I hate him. Maybe I do! I feel like I hate him right now because he shut this all down just by poking his fucking shark nose in it. Why did it have to be him? This is my research, this was how I was going to change the world. Why did it have to be him?”

Paxton and Sid were lovely guys, but they did not know what to do with a suddenly furious young woman they had known for less than twenty-four hours. That was the truth of it, though. I never really hated Peter Petrawicki until he got into my world. I was always separate from the ideological arguments. I saw what he did to April, but it never made me hate him because I imagined him as a force of nature. You don’t hate a storm when it cancels your rocket launch.