Thinking back about it, the name "Human Resources" was the only clue we needed.
"I can't sleep," I complained to my therapist. The inhumanly empathetic rendering nodded.
"That's very common in the industry. Opinion management is a very fast-paced job." Her voice sounded familiar and reassuring, and I wondered idly whose recordings it had been synthesized it from.
"But don't I need sleep?"
"That's a myth. You are doing a good job at something important. Think about it this way: if you lose your job, it'll only make your parents happy."
We laughed together. It was true.
"Well," she said. "There goes our session time. I'll see you tomorrow."
I said goodbye as she disappeared from my visual field, replaced by the graphs and chatrooms where I lived twenty hours a day. As always, the company psychiatrist (mandatory, but also the only one I could have consulted with my schedule and my "smart" health insurance) had made me feel much better. I still fancied I could feel the electrodes deep in my brain keeping me awake during the long shifts, but they no longer felt alien, and in a way I was grateful the company was giving me a discount to rent them.