"I am the Sarah Wynn-Williams of Facebook's present." The ghastly figure shifts tersely behind the blinds. She closely resembles the Wikipedia profile picture of the former social media executive whom she claimed to be. She gives no grandeur. "A Christmas Carol? Charles Dickens? Seriously?" "I bring you the image of Facebook as it exists today." To her credit, I wouldn't know. I haven't used Facebook since 2021. Wynn-Williams hands me a pre-aquisition Oculus Rift. I don it and am faced with an ever-expanding core eating the social networking platform from the inside, a core made of bomber jets with crocodile heads and sharks in the limited-edition sky-blue Nike kicks I tried to steal from the shoe company's headquarters. The figures solidify into pixels of a laughing, broccoli-headed Mark Zuckerberg, who is swallowed a-la-Old Testament by an even larger Tralalero Tralala. A sumptuous Jair Bolsonaro emerges from the wings and grills the whale, eating it for breakfast, then hops on an old, upscaled prototype LTE drone as it passes by, a winking Vaughan Smith in the cockpit. "That's what the site's like nowadays?" "Well, strictly speaking, no. The immersive reality experience launches tomorrow, but forty percent of our users have been A/B testing it for a month and haven't noticed." Wynn-Williams hasn't work at Facebook in the better part of a decade. I guess Silicon Valley truly *is* full of open secrets. I ask Sarah if she has anything else to show me, or if she can at least tell me how she got here and what she's doing on my windowsill. "lol," she replies, and flutters away on a skybridge. --- "I am the Sarah Wynn-Williams of Facebook's future." The pixels are disintegrating into their constituent bits. Some of the bits themselves seem unstable. A force of the wind, taking the shape of a common AI company logo, keeps the figure from breaking apart completely. "Are you the same one who appeared before me last night?" "Oh, no. She died a century ago. I'm her rebuild. The company built me out of old messages and CCTV footage. I revived in 2174, and took over when the standing head of global policy refused to" The pixel art becomes inscrutable. I'm reminded of the section of her memoir where Sarah, in a futile huff, raises concerns about the way teenagers' data is used by the company. "Did Facebook do this to all their former employees?", I ask. Didn't the original Sarah Wynn-Williams get a say in what would happen to her likeness after her death? What about her family -- at the very least? "Oh, it wasn't just employees. All users have been resurrected, with the latest on-site and advertising profile information available. Would you like to see yours?" I do not look behind me. I do not take my computer. I do not take my phone. I take my wallet, and my keys -- and I do lock the door. --- "I am the Sarah Wynn-Williams of Facebook's past." "How the fuck did you find my hotel?" "Advertising profile." She takes a QR code out of her pocket and foists it in my direction, not unlike how she describes having shoved a copy of Cheryl Sandberg's *Lean In* at the prime minister of Japan in a covert promotional meeting for the title. "Fine. Go ahead -- this barcode leads to crucial information about Facebook's past?" "To my author profile. Buy my fucking audiobook."