The first difference is a sense of spaciousness. Inside and out, I have more room to move around.

If my mind was a well, the well is deeper now. I don't speak as quickly, and I don't ask as many questions. Ideas take longer to digest. This is to be expected.

I woke up in a white room. They haven't told me how long I'll be here. Dr. Roche says they're preparing me for reentry.

Every morning they run tests to see how much my brain remembers. Some questions I couldn't know the answers to, but then they tell me, and later that question is asked again, and again, until I get it right.

Diana gives me lessons in the afternoon. She's the receptionist. She taught me new ways to walk and talk and how to use my eyes so that a man can't look away from them.

She asks me what I think about politics and shows me a magazine photo of Neil Cameron. "He's a fascinating man," I say.

"Yes, he is," she says. She approves of my answer, I can tell.

Once, she leaves the room to make a telephone call. In a folder on her desk I find drawings labeled "Ariella Montero," each one numbered. The doctor must have made them. They are paper-clipped in two groups: Ari at thirteen and Ari at twenty-two. The older Ari's waist is more defined, and the hips and legs are more shapely. The face is more angular, the nose slightly longer. And the eyes look more self-aware, more confident.

I hope I can take these drawings with me when I leave.

"No, do it this way."

Diana isn't a patient teacher. She says I have a habit of grabbing objects. Instead, I should approach them, consider them, bend toward them, lift them lightly. "Like this," she says, and walks across the office to her desk, leans toward it, and picks up a pen.

"Now you try."

She says we need to spend this much time because small gestures reveal character. Picking up objects is more important than I would have guessed.

So I cross the room, bend over the desk, pause, and slowly lift a pencil.

Diana perches on a chair, her long legs crossed. "Better," she says. "Do it again."

The afternoon lessons are more fun. She takes me shopping.

Shopping in Miami means sauntering through malls and South Beach boutiques filled with glittering jewelry and incredible shoes, surrounded by women and men who look and move like models. They never smile. Shopping with Diana means trying on armloads of clothing selected by her, posing in mirrors while she makes the choices. She buys thousands of dollars' worth of clothing, accessories, and a winter coat she says will be essential in New York. She even gives me a fancy new cell phone.

Then she takes me to a salon. My hair is styled. Makeup is applied, and I'm shown how to re-create the results on my own.

"You need to emphasize those eyes," the stylist tells me, and Diana says, "Make them pop."

The afternoon stretches into evening by the time our taxi reaches the Delano Hotel. I begin to get out, but she stays in the cab. "Dr. Roche will meet you in the bar and take you to dinner," she says.

I walk into the hotel lobby, which doesn't look like a lobby so much as a Hollywood mansion. Billowing white curtains fall from cathedral ceilings to polished wooden floors. Twin gargoyles support a bench, and metal bears climb an umbrella stand. Diana insisted that I wear the clingy black chiffon cocktail dress. People stop talking to watch me as I come in.

I don't stop to ask where the bar is. I walk straight on, past the beautiful people gaping at me, as if my feet know exactly where they are going, even though they're wearing unfamiliar high-heeled shoes.

Dr. Roche sits at a round table in a bar area edged by rose-colored curtains and mirrored walls, lit by tea lights. He sips a rose-colored cocktail, which he sets down the moment he sees me. His dark little eyes flicker over every inch of me as I make my way to his table. He stands up.

"Ms. Montero," he says, extending his hand.

The name makes me smile. I shake his hand in the brief, emphatic style Diana taught me. "It's a pleasure to see you," I say.

He laughs. "Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me."

He summons a server and orders me a drink-something red, in a frosted glass, smelling faintly of strawberries and roses. I reach for my purse, in case the server needs to see my new driver's license with my new birth date, but he never asks.

The drink matches my lipstick.

The doctor asks about my day. I tell him about the shopping, but he doesn't seem to be listening so much as studying me, measuring me, assessing me.

"And you're looking forward to your internship?"

I don't remember telling him about that. "Yes," I say. "I will like living in New York."

"It's a setting that will suit you," he says.

We finish our drinks and move on to dinner. The restaurant is called Blue Door, yet almost everything in it is white, except for two high-backed red leather chairs against the curtained wall. I think I'll sit in one of those fancy chairs, but Dr. Roche takes it and beckons to me to take a low-backed one opposite him. A server pulls out my chair, hands me my napkin and menu. We order Chilean sea bass and a bottle of white wine.

While we wait for the food to arrive, I excuse myself to visit the restroom. Like everything else in the hotel, the room has high ceilings and sculpted fixtures.

A woman in a tight red dress half lies across the marble sink, her face upside down, while a blond woman in green drinks from her throat. When she notices me, the blond one raises her head and lets me see her fangs and a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. She licks it away and bends back to her feeding.

The Delano is quite a place, I decide. Mortals and immortals mingle freely, unabashed about their natures. Plus, everyone and everything look so perfect.

When I walk back to the table, Dr. Roche is speaking into a cell phone. He puts it away when I arrive. "Nice dress," he says, and I thank him.

After dinner we stroll outside, past a long swimming pool with tables set in the shallow end. Couples dine there, candelabra on their tables, clothing tucked up to stay dry. Others sit in poolside cabanas, partially visible through parted white curtains, their silhouettes romantic, mysterious. This is the world I want to live in.

Dr. Roche talks as we stroll, telling me how pleased he is with my "results." I think I've passed his examination.

He says that tomorrow I'll be leaving them to go to New York. But instead of going to a hotel, I'll be living in an apartment he owns in the Meatpacking District. "I keep it there for business trips," he says. "It's empty, so you might as well use it."

Again, I thank him. "You're like a fairy godfather," I say.

"I'm a magician," he says. "That's why I won the Xavier Prize."

Next morning, Diana ushers me to my car. Inside, I see the bags of clothing we bought yesterday.

"You'll drive safely, of course," she says. "And if you have any questions at any time, call or text me. My number is programmed into your phone-just press two."

I don't think I'll have any questions. I'm so impatient to be on my way that I never ask her about the drawings in her file.

I drive twelve hours that day, stop at a motel in North Carolina, and drive nine hours the next day. At a diner near the exit ramp, I notice a newspaper headlined, CAMERON GATE-CRASHES NEW HAMPSHIRE PRIMARY. The article says it's the first time a third-party candidate has received a significant number of write-in votes on the primary ballots of both major parties.

I feel an urge to call and congratulate him, but of course I don't. Our time will come soon enough.

It's exciting to see the lights of the city wink through a veil of snowflakes. I make my way to the Blackstone building without any problem and park in the garage underneath the apartments.

Dr. Roche's place is a loft-an open layout in which one room flows into the next, reminding me a little of the Delano. Even the bathroom is an open cubicle without a door. But there are no curtains here. The furniture is modern and minimal: white sofas, black chairs, a huge white-sheeted bed mounted on a black pedestal. Everything looks new. I never dreamed of living in a place like this.

I open my suitcase, noticing how perfectly it has been packed. Each item is folded precisely. My Peruvian dress is wrapped in tissue paper and my shoes placed in cotton bags. My journal is the only item that looks used, even bruised, its blue cover beginning to tear. I need to buy a new one. I spend the evening unpacking, putting each item in exactly the right place.

Next morning I take a taxi to the NetFriend office in an anonymous building in Midtown. My new boss is named Chelsea. She has straight, dark hair and dark-framed glasses.

"So you're the new intern," she says. "You dress like a fashion model." She's wearing jeans.

"Thanks," I say, not sure if it's a compliment.

"Too bad we can't put you straight into sales. But you have to go through orientation and the usual intern duty first."

She stares at me, admiring my outfit.

There are ten other interns, all wearing jeans, sitting in a conference room waiting to be oriented. Orientation means a series of presentations about NetFriend-a bit about its history and a lot about its present. NetFriend is booming. Its money comes from advertisers and marketing companies, who pay for information about users in order to target certain audiences.

I'm the only person in the room who doesn't have a NetFriend account, a fact that seems to shock the others. During a break, Chelsea helps me set up my profile online. She uses the computer camera to take my picture and loads it onto the profile page.

"Everything you post, we have access to," she says. "As a result, the ads you'll see on the right of your page will be targeted to your age group, gender, and preferences in music, movies, clothes, and other products. We pay attention to what you say. A few users think we're invading their privacy, but we're really saving them time and money by informing them about the products they'll like best."

I choose the user name AriVamp. That way, I figure, I'll be sure to get the coolest ads. And I upload a photo Diana e-mailed me. Taken after my afternoon makeover, it shows me wearing the black chiffon dress. My hair and makeup are flawless.

As an intern, my job is not going to be glamorous, I'm told. But if I work hard, I might be invited to apply for a full-time job after I graduate.

I don't think I'll need a job then.

We're given a tour of the office, whose largest room is called the Trend Room. A computer projection of a world map fills one wall, with tiny points of light flickering in clusters across it. Trend is a partner company of NetFriend, and each light represents someone sending a text message, or buzzing, from a cell phone or computer.

"Spain is busy today." Chelsea points at the map. "But look how quiet China is."

I notice a cluster of lights in southeast Georgia. Hillhouse students are busy buzzing their way through the spring semester, completely unaware that each of them is a dot on a map in New York.

Next to the Trend Room is a door leading to another suite of offices, but we don't go in. "You have to have special clearance to go in there. That's where the Security Team works," Chelsea says. "They handle cybercrime investigations." She says sometimes cyberpunks hack in to NetFriend accounts, access their e-mail, and steal their identities.

"Sometimes they e-mail their NetFriends asking for loans," she says. "Other times they find links to bank accounts and credit cards and hack them, too."

I wish I could see beyond the Security Team's unmarked door. If I have to work, that's where I want to be.

Instead, Chelsea sets me up in a cubicle and gives me administrative access to a NetFriend page dealing with user complaints. NetFriend users have to provide Social Security numbers when they file their complaints. My computer's desktop features a file of stock responses, so basically my job will be saving the Social Security numbers, matching the key words in the complaint e-mail with the same words in a response file, and sending off the reply.

"Isn't there a program to do this?" I ask.

"We tried that, but it wasn't infallible. Our users prefer the personal touch." Chelsea laughs. "Our users are like insecure teenagers, Ari. They need to be told they're okay, over and over again."

The response files confirm what she said. Many of the complaints come because users' accounts could be deleted if they don't follow the NetFriend Code of Conduct, which prohibits obscenity, nudity, death threats-that sort of thing. In fact the code is enforced only if another user complains about the content of a particular page. NetFriend doesn't check out the complaint, they simply send offending users e-mail that their accounts have been disabled.

Most of the e-mails I have to answer ask why their accounts aren't accessible. The stock response is: "We understand your concern. Your account was disabled because it didn't conform to NetFriend policies. Unfortunately, we are unable to divulge the specific nature of your offense."

Some of the e-mails I read sound desperate. One reads, "You cut me off from all my friends. How will they know what I'm up to now? Can't you tell me what I did wrong?"

I click my mouse and send her the stock response. Sinneca at omail.com will be isolated forever, unless one day NetFriend changes its mind and reinstates her. Sometimes that happens, thanks to an algorithm that randomly reinstates some rule breakers weeks or months after they've been banished.

Chelsea says, "The process isn't logical. But who said life should be logical?"

"Why do you ask for the Social Security numbers?" I ask.

"That's part of our security operation." Chelsea shakes her head, telling me not to ask any more questions.

A group of interns is going out for after-work drinks, and I'm invited to join them. I say thanks, but I can't tonight. I want some time alone. I put on my new winter coat and walk home, savoring block after block.

A tall man with blond hair stops and asks me what time it is. I'm wearing my diamond watch, a gift from Dr. Roche, and I'm happy to tell him. He smiles and thanks me. He says, "Don't you remember me?"

His face is familiar, but I can't think of his name.

"That's okay," he says. "We'll talk again. Meantime, do be careful. You're too valuable to lose." He walks on.

On a corner kiosk newspaper headlines say that Cameron has won another endorsement. When I arrive home that night, I go online and find Cameron's NetFriend page. He has nearly two million friends already. He probably isn't even monitoring the page, but just in case I add him to my friend list.

Again, I have an urge to call him, but I don't. I can bide my time. The New York primary is only a few weeks away. We'll be together then.