Well, perhaps not kill her, as a first remedy. She knows a lot, but can prove none of it, and all they have to do—as they so kindly point out by way of induction into the club—is inform the world that she has collapsed due to overwork. Pippa Keene can file a report about self-checks, doll’s houses and unsafe implanted memory spools, throw in some juicy stuff about fugue states and impaired cognition. Then they can highlight the footage of her chasing no one at all through the tunnels of the London Underground. With news tailored by the System to each individual recipient, reflexively rewritten as it is consumed, no one will doubt the tragic tale. Her whole case will drift away in the wind, the stuff of counterfeit moon landings. A little later—the sad, inevitable end—she will throw herself into the Thames or fall under a bus, replacing the Real Life sign as a fallen and ironic emblem of life’s reassuring imperfection.