Simon sees the Prophet again in group therapy on Monday. They sit in a circle out on the west patio, shaded from the early-summer sun. The moderator leads off with an announcement. Kevin Foster had passed away in his sleep over the weekend. She asks them how they feel about that.
“When you say in his sleep,” says Greta Moracin, sixteen, “can you be more specific?”
Greta is a slight blond waif, probably anorexic, definitely ADHD.
“What do you want?” asks Ashton Hunt, thirteen, the youngest among them. “The gory details? Like did he swallow his tongue or aspirate on his own throw-up?”
“Nobody swallowed their tongue,” says the moderator in a reassuring voice. “What we know is that death is simply part of life. It’s all part of the great cycle.”
Simon sits under the trellis next to Cookie Yamamoto, a seventeen-year-old depressive who likes to draw on herself with a ballpoint pen. In Japanese culture, social anxiety is called “taijin kyofusho,” which means the fear of offending or embarrassing someone else. How liberating it must be, thinks Simon, not to endure the Western terror of awkward self-humiliation, with its endless, obsessive, narcissistic myopathy.
He doesn’t tend to say much in group, focusing mainly on his breathing. Today he is also studying the Prophet out of the corner of his eye.
“Death is the end of life,” says Betsy, chewing her cuticles.
“You know what else death is the end of?” says Ashton. “Worry.”
They think about that, thirteen teenagers who spend their days and nights trapped in a vortex of constant agita. Information from the outside world is suppressed here. There is no internet, no phones. Contacts must be listed and approved to reduce the possibility of confrontation or triggering. This means none of the children in Simon’s group have seen the news in weeks. They don’t realize that Kevin is just another grain of sand in an hourglass, slowly draining away, or that death is a virus now, ravaging the world’s young.
Simon looks at the moderator, who clears her throat gently and bangs a small bronze gong to get their attention. The group goes silent, listening to the reverberations.
It is then that the Prophet speaks.
“Modern America,” he says, “has some of the highest rates of depression, anxiety, and loneliness in human history. This isn’t my opinion. It’s statistical. Things are worst in the cities, and among the wealthy. Which is the opposite of what you would think.”
“And why is that?” Simon hears himself asking.
The Prophet turns and looks at him. He is fourteen years old. The rumor is he comes from Wisconsin, that he grew up on a farm that went under during the financial collapse. Others say he was born on the four corners between New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and Colorado, delivered under a full moon in the back of a Nissan Pathfinder. But these are just rumors.
“The !Kung people of the Kalahari Desert,” he says, “work as little as twelve hours a week. Everything they do, they do together; hunting, gathering, the great washing of clothes. Every resource they have is shared. Food, water, shelter. The biggest sin you can commit in the !Kung culture is to be selfish. Interestingly, they have the lowest rate of mental illness in the known world. Is it because they have no personal belongings or time to themselves? No word for I? It’s hard to say. But what we know is that the pursuit of personal property shifts a person’s focus from the group to one’s self—shifting the words in one’s head from ours to mine. This is for the worse, as evidenced by the fact that today you can live your whole life encountering mostly strangers, surrounded by luxury and yet completely alone.”
“What does any of that have to do with Kevin killing himself?” asks Ashton.
“Now, hold on a sec, Ash,” says the moderator. “Nobody said anything about Kevin killing himself.”
Everyone ignores her. They are interested in what the Prophet has to say.
“Self-determination theory,” he intones calmly, as if the moderator had never spoken, “states that human beings need three basic things in order to feel content. Number one, they need to feel competent at what they do. Number two, they need to feel authentic in their lives, and number three, they need to feel connected to others. Is there anyone here who feels they can check all three of those boxes?”
None of them raise their hands. There is a pause. Then the moderator’s hand shoots up.
“You know what else matters?” she says. “Trying. It matters that we’re here and that we’re trying to feel good. Does anyone else want to share something with the group? Betsy?”
Betsy shrugs. She is drawing a noose on her leg in blue, ballpoint ink.
“The thing to understand about groups,” the Prophet says, “is that cooperating with others triggers high levels of oxytocin in the human brain. Sharing, banding together. All lead to feelings of trust and bonding among men and increases the instinct to breastfeed among women. We literally feel better when we’re working together.”
“That’s great,” says the moderator. “Thank you for that, Paul. See, kids? It’s important we work together.”
Simon chews some loose skin from his lip. Now he knows the Prophet’s name. Paul.
“I asked you not to call me that,” says the Prophet mildly.
“Sorry. I forgot,” says the moderator. “What would you like to be called?”
The Prophet takes a moment, then says—
“I don’t want to be called anything. I’m not here for me. I’m here for you. It’s the only way the future will be any different from the present or the past. We need to forget ourselves and focus on each other.”