Transcript: “Why don’t you go out with the boys,” Brian suggested. “You’re always happier after a little Squatty time.”

“Eww. Don’t call it that,” said Linda.

“Take a Squat. Work the glutes. Get that ass to grass!” said Brian, demonstrating perfect deep squat form.

Linda smiled.

“There we go,” said Brian. “I know you’re mad, but ‘mad all the time is a distraction perpetuated by the attention sucker.’”

“You’ve been watching Western Toilet!” said Linda.

Brian shrugged. “He’s funny.”

So Linda got it together and messaged Squatty. He immediately messaged back a location pin and said to meet them there in one hour.

It was a quiet street that looked nearly deserted, but down a small alleyway, there was a door that opened into a crowded dance club.

In the corner of the room, a tiny young woman wearing giant earphones and homemade jewelry was staring intently into a couple of computer screens, and the people on the dancefloor pulsed along to the beat.

How come Linda didn’t know about these places? She’d lived in this city all of her life. She used to be cool. But the boys were living in a whole different world.

  Linda drinks. “Your honorarium!” they would say.

The DJ played weird stuff and Linda started having fun.

She danced with the boys and associated friends and some straight-up strangers.

Wendy showed up in an outfit she had designed and sewed herself from vintage fabrics.

The music was loud and conversation was impossible.

You could just yell things into the party and everyone cheered back.

It was that kind of night.

“I’m obsessed with a conspiracy that I made up in my own head!” Linda shouted.

“Right on!” Wendy shouted back.

And for a moment, Linda felt free. Maybe everyone else was right. Instead of getting all worked up about things outside of her control, she should have just gone dancing. She used to love to dance.

At 2:30 am, the DJ put on a remix of the Weather Aboveground jingle, “It’s the conversation we’re all having,” chopped and screwed into sonic scrambled eggs.

“Throw your vote up on the wall!” the DJ intoned.

Everyone projected their watches at the club walls. Cloudy icons filled the room.

“This is you!” said Adrian. “The protest vote! You made this happen!”

Linda felt sick, “This isn’t me. I’m not protesting; I don’t vote. They’re … stealing your data.”

“Oh, yeah. Your thing with your aunt,” Adrian said. “But I mean … who doesn’t have your data.

And if I get up to 40,000 Weather Points, I get this sick customizable avatar.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your avatar,” said Linda, with a sarcasm that Adrian missed.

A sudden commotion drew the attention of everyone in the room.

“Oww, you fucking bitch. You did that on purpose,” A guy was yelling at a woman about Linda’s age.

“She shocked me. She has some kind of thing and she shocked me!”

“Too right, I shocked you,” said the woman.

She had artfully messy hair and impish, wild eyes, and she was wearing rubber slippers.

 “Your complacency is killing you.” She shuffled her feet on the floor and thrust her finger at the guy again, menacingly. He jumped back.

“Song An?” called Linda.

The troublemaker looked over. “Oh, hey Fuck-face! Long time, no see.”