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after. It was when I saw Quimbly’s face turning blue that I took my beer bottle and broke it over Barrett’s head. We tied his legs and arms together and called 911.
    That was the end of Barrett. He was sent upstate, where he ranted at the walls and played God to anyone willing to listen. When we cleaned out his apartment, we discovered the memories he’d never told us about. He’d begun a personal log, which detailed beaming thousands of his own created memories, the notebook deteriorating into pages of an indecipherable alphabet.
    Still, Barrett had tried, in his own way, to warn us. Come May, less than a week after our first memory ads launched, the word spread that we’d sold out. A blogger posted a scathing piece that went viral. Memory start-ups took the bait and began selling their memories as “100% ad free.”
    “Who’d have guessed they’d resent having their brain space tweaked, they never seemed to mind before,” Quimbly joked. But he, too, was shaken. Within the month, sales fell and our inboxes were full of hate mail. We were no longer the masters of the universe, just owners of a failing company.
    *   *   *
    QUIMBLY ENDED UP taking a job for another company that manufactured thought ads. He told me the news as we cleared the Crow’s Nest of our belongings, and I listened vaguely as I cleaned out my desk, realizing the life we’d created together was now only a memory. Barrett was gone, Quimbly was moving on, and I had nothing but my dwindling savings and Cynthia.
    “People resist thought ads, but soon enough they’ll be as commonplace as napkins,” he said. “I can get you in, but first clean yourself up.”
    I looked up from the floorboards where I’d been staring, thinking about the years I’d spent in the war. “What do you mean ‘clean myself up’?”
    “How many memories are you beaming a day?”
    “Not that many,” I lied. Like Barrett, I was designing my own memories and downloading them when I couldn’t sleep. I still logged the memories I tested, but not my late-night binges or the hundreds of high-end Shimazaki memories I’d spent my bank account on. “Maybe a few a day,” I said.
    “Uh-huh. Look, I’m not telling you what to do with your life, but you’re starting to act like Barrett. Go visit him. Refresh your memory of what happens when you lose track.”
    “I’m fine,” I said.
    “No, you’re not,” Quimbly said. “You probably don’t even remember the time we went skiing.”
    “Of course I do: Breckenridge, three days of fresh powder.”
    Quimbly shook his head. “That was one of mine,” he said. “Listen, I know you won’t stop beaming because I tell you to, but if you’re going to keep beaming, at least use this one next.” Quimbly pulled a memory stick from his pocket. “It’s a going-away present.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and though I knew he and Cynthia were right, and that the best thing for me would be never to touch another memory again, I couldn’t help myself from reaching out and taking the gift.
    When I got back to the apartment, I left the boxes from the office in the hallway and sat down on the couch. I placed the tip of Quimbly’s memory stick against my forehead and pressed the button. I was halfway into the beam when Cynthia walked in.
    “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said.
    “What?” I opened my eyes.
    “You just went bankrupt because of those things and you’re—” Then she stopped. “No, you know what—go ahead and enjoy yourself, beam all night if you want. I’m out of here.” She raised her two fingers in a peace sign, then turned her back on me and left the room.
    “Hey!” I said. “Just wait a minute, I’m almost done.” I finished Quimbly’s gift and got up to find her, but she wasn’t anywhere. Not in the bedroom, the kitchen, or the bathroom. The only trace of her was a note taped to the mirror. I’m done. Goodbye, Adam. Thanks for the memories. Sorry you liked yours better.
    For