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of brilliance I can do without.” She looked at me for the first time since I’d entered the room. “His fetish is getting inside people’s heads. That’s why he likes being, what did you call it, the ‘control group’? Control freak is more like it. He loves that he controls your memories—you’re his guinea pigs.”
    In retrospect, I can see that this was precisely what Quimbly was doing. I’d thought of him as a friend—and maybe Barrett and I were as close to friends as Quimbly would ever be capable of—but deep down, we were just social experiments to him. I couldn’t see it then, though, and was angry at Cynthia for calling our work evil and me a guinea pig.
    “It’s no different than what you do,” I said before I could stop myself. “You only want real memories based on your plans for us. You talk about a farmhouse that doesn’t even exist yet. You want to create my memories as much as he does.”
    She looked at me for a moment before turning back to her book. “You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
    “Right,” I said. “That’s why I have a company worth millions, and you’re just reading a book.”
    “Here,” she said, tossing me a pillow. “How about we sleep apart tonight.”
    And so I went back into the living room and lay on the couch, late into the night, wondering why I’d defended Quimbly against the woman who loved me. Perhaps this proved everything Cynthia was trying to tell me—that he’d already gotten so deeply into my head that I’d willingly hurt anyone who reminded me, not out of control but out of love, that I’d never been to Russia or had a brother. It was this thought that brought me back to the bedroom, to climb beneath the sheets and to hold her, telling her I was sorry and that I wanted to make memories together.
    *   *   *
    IT WAS HARD to shake the memory of our first real fight. In the months that followed, Cynthia and I avoided that night with Quimbly, and I made an effort to be more present. We went for walks, ate at our favorite bistro, and we’d return to my apartment and make love. But there was a growing distance between us, and when she’d fall asleep, I’d edge my way out of bed to beam high-end memories in the darkness of our bathroom. It was, I realize now, a time when I had everything: a woman who loved me, a company worth millions, and bidders waiting in line to buy us out. Quimbly was calling us the history-makers. It was a time when I believed we would become the masters of the world. Then we destroyed it all.
    “We’ll make a fortune,” Quimbly said, putting his palms together.
    “What exactly are you suggesting?” I asked.
    “Simple ad placement. We layer one into your Cuba memory. Show sweat beading along a glass of Coke, carbonation fizzing. We’re talking big money for a single placement.”
    Barrett was deadly silent. Over the past weeks he’d become increasingly taciturn, but this was something different. His lips were working back and forth against each other as though he was grinding his teeth.
    “We’re selling out?” I asked.
    “Just being practical. They’re lining up at our door. We could own the world.”
    “Enough!” Barrett ordered, his voice echoing in the beams.
    “Hold on,” Quimbly said. “You haven’t heard me out.”
    “You dare argue with me?” Barrett boomed, his fingers clenching. “Do you know who I am? I am the Lord of lords and the King of kings; I am the alpha and omega; I am the Lord Supreme.” He rose from his seat, stepping onto the couch and lifting his hands into the air as though holding a staff. “You, who sow discontent, shall be crucified! Your hands and feet shall be cut off—”
    “Barrett, chill,” Quimbly said.
    “In my presence the mountains quake! The hills melt, the earth trembles, its people are destroyed! The day of judgment has come!” Then Barrett jumped from the couch and seized Quimbly around the neck so hard it left bruises for weeks