It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m already behind. I’ve snoozed the calendar alert for “complete Unlock Success Report by end of day'' fourteen times already, but rather than finish the tasks for the USR — to verify the face-recognition algorithm and manually unlock three random phones per day — I’ve spent the day coding. Rush blares through my headphones to drown out whatever upbeat Bollywood crap my officemate, Vikranth, is singing along to.

If I snooze any more, I’ll miss today’s deadline, and our manager, Stephen, will summon a Corporate Compliance bot to hand me a pink slip and take my badge. I’ve seen it happen. I’ll never forget the humiliation on the engineer’s face when he was escorted out by the waist-high robot. As he walked toward the exit, the engineer’s expression turned to fear at what I assumed was the realization that he’d be out a six-figure tech salary. The CC bot deposited the engineer onto the piss-damp street in front of our San Francisco building before returning to its corner office at the end of our hall, where twenty such bots wait until they’re summoned. I can admit now that I was initially against the project on ethical grounds — we’re unlocking phones without our users’ consent — and I considered raising my objections to Stephen, but then our stock price went up, increasing my salary by fifteen percent. Can you blame me for staying quiet?

I open the USR portal in a new browser and hit ACCEPT to authenticate the phone for User1. I’ve only just started, and I still have two more to go before the day’s end. I don’t know it yet, but I’ll see a CC bot later today, despite my best efforts.

Vikranth swivels his chair to face me. Our desks face opposite walls of a small office. He’s wearing a blue button-down dress shirt, starched and wrinkle-free, tucked smartly into a pair of gray slacks. My own white T-shirt is two sizes too big and has a yellow smudge on the shoulder from using it as a napkin today at lunch. We’re both Level 5 senior software engineers, but only Vikranth dresses like he makes the salary. And kind of in an annoying way, if I’m being honest. As a class, engineers, almost by definition, don’t dress up for work, but good luck convincing Vikranth of that.

I roll my chair in front of my monitor, keeping my back turned to Vikranth, who taps me on the shoulder and says, “Hey, Samir. How’s it going, buddy?”

“Hey, Vikranth,” I say evenly, my eyes still on the screen.

He doesn’t take the hint and keeps talking. “Samir, why are you shadowing in the USR? Just move on to the next user. You’re going to get caught.”

I minimize the USR window and point to my now-empty screen. “I’m done. See?”

Over the last month, I’d developed a compulsion to shadow, to spy on users after unlocking their phones. Shadowing is forbidden, for obvious reasons, but the illicit joy of stalking someone on their device when they think no one is watching is too great a temptation. Vikranth wouldn’t understand. His love for rules is too fervent to allow for any slip. I started shadowing after our co-worker, Will, told me it was possible, that everyone he knew did it, and no one had been caught. Will has this soft, chestnut hair that flops across his forehead in a casual way that makes the few women we have on our team silently stare whenever he walks by, something I’ve never experienced. When Will told me about shadowing, I figured I’d give it a try. The first time I shadowed, I watched a twenty-something white guy swipe left on a series of homely women in a dating app, stopping only when he reached a picture of a voluptuous blonde in a bikini. It was mesmerizing to live through the clicks and swipes of others, and now it’s become the part of the day I look forward to most.

“It’s impossible to get caught shadowing,” I remind Vikranth. Once the phone is unlocked for the correct user, you can follow them around anonymously because of the slapdash way the USR system was built. I don’t say this out loud, but frankly, Vikranth is the weird one for not shadowing. People might like him more if he loosened up a bit, broke an unenforced rule, unbuttoned his collar. Unlike Vikranth, who’s from India, I was born in the US. My parents moved to Houston from Chennai in the late 1970s, so I know American culture.

“Look,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. “You need to stop shadowing. I see you do it every day.” He’s not wrong, but what’s concerning is that he noticed at all. I’m nervous about what he’ll do with this information.

“Stop freaking out,” I say, dismissing his anxiety. “Literally everyone does it.”

“No, the white engineers do it. You’re so obsessed with being one, you can’t even see it.” “Obsessed? With being white?” I’m upset at his accusation. I know he’s insinuating that I’m rejecting my Indian heritage. I was raised here, dammit. Of course I prefer Rush over Bollywood and know not to starch my shirts.

He looks hurt by my harshness. “All it took was Will, one white guy, telling you to do something. I see what you shadow. White people, white culture. It’s like a drug. You’re even straightening your hair.” His voice softens. “Buddy, I don’t want you to get in trouble. If Stephen finds out...”

“Stephen. Better. Not. Find. Out,” I interrupt, like it’s a threat. “And I’m not obsessed with white people. I shadow them because it’s ironic,” I say, cringing at how defensive I sound.

Vikranth sighs, frustrated to be making a point that I’m not grokking. “I’m not gonna tell Stephen anything.” He gets up and leaves our office.

I maximize the window and am now observing User1 through the USR portal as she opens up her YouTube channel to look at analytics and view counts for recent video uploads. From a quick scan of the thumbnails, it looks like User1 makes videos of herself singing original music. She’s probably over fifty, wearing red flannel pajamas and no makeup. She clicks “play” on a video, and I watch as she launches into a haunting melody about love and stubbornness. For a moment, I get lost in the sweetness of her pure, dreamy voice. She’s singing in English, but with a beautiful Spanish accent. In the song, she pleads for her love to open their heart and give her another chance. She sings of hope and healing and the rawness of lost love, and she sings with the vulnerability of someone who has endured a deep and profound loss but who seeks redemption and understanding and—wait a second, this is an Adele song. To be fair, it’s not exactly the same as Adele’s song, but I can tell that the original is more than just a source of inspiration. User1 expands the comment section below her video and reads the accusatory rants from rabid Adele fans yelling at her. Um, enough. You’re no Adele! Would be better if you could actually speak English!!! The blowback is unnecessarily cruel. From what I see, she’s just trying to follow Adele’s formula for success, moving music, relatable themes, powerhouse voice. She’s following the script closely, but she doesn’t account for her Spanish accent and her unglamorous clothing. User1 ends up looking like an off-brand imitation of the original, a sort of Kirkland vodka of pop music.

It’s the same with Vikranth, I see now, this notion that following a formula is a means to success. But what he doesn’t understand is that none of this will help him fit in socially. His collared shirt may seem like the ideal corporate uniform, but when you add in his strong Indian accent and distinctly un-American mannerisms like calling people “buddy,” you get a confusing mashup. In trying desperately to fit in with the crowd, Vikranth can’t help but stick out. He needs someone’s assistance to assimilate. I can be that someone. Vikranth will see my gesture as a way of reaching out. He’ll think we’re truly friends, and my performance will be so convincing that maybe we will be. I need Vikranth on my side so he doesn’t narc on my shadowing. Being his guide will allow me to keep a close eye on him. I remind myself to act generous, and to coach him on things like what to wear. If I can successfully get Vikranth on my side, I’ll be safe, and he’ll be better for it. It’s good for both of us. I load phone two into the USR portal and wait for him to return.

The USR project was Stephen’s brainchild, a way for him to improve metrics for our facialrecognition software and minimize bad press. Early facial recognition technology used to unlock devices was accurate, but bad actors developed methods to trick the algorithm into authenticating the wrong person, resulting in waves of identity theft and terrible PR for companies like ours. Stephen’s plan was elegant in its simplicity. Authentication of three phones required only ten minutes of an engineer’s time to manually determine the accuracy of the automated face-recognition algorithm. The task was lightweight enough that it shouldn’t eat into our other job responsibilities. But when you add in the time I shadow users on their unlocked devices, I bet I spend about three hours a day on the USR task. I’ve successfully unlocked the phone for User2, and I’m shadowing her as she takes selfies. Vikranth comes back, licking pistachio ice cream from a waffle cone embossed with our company’s logo.

User2 navigates to Instagram, and I gather from her profile that her name is Audrey. The portal doesn’t reveal any personally identifying information, and I can’t go anywhere she doesn't go. But if she navigates somewhere on the device where her name, bank details, and nude pics are revealed, well, it wouldn’t be my fault. I can only observe as she leads, like a passenger in a car. Audrey spends five minutes editing a selfie using one of those apps that makes cheeks plumper and eyes bigger. She posts the edited picture with the caption “woke up like this.”

Audrey’s unnaturally-large, gray eyes resemble an anime character now. She was pretty enough before, but I note how much her beauty grows after the editing. Glassy, poreless skin, caramel-highlights in her hair. The likes and comments start flooding in: Fire! Good morning QUEEN! Audrey’s post reminds me that it’s possible to give yourself a makeover to earn likes in real life, too. I look over and see Vikranth’s tongue licking a long trail of ice cream from his forearm all the way to his wrist. I wince at the thought of rehabilitating this guy.

“Take this,” I say and hand him a napkin.

Vikranth narrows his eyes. “Is this, what’s it called...a microaggression?”

“No way,” I reply, looking at him with a pained expression that I hope he buys. “I’m only

trying to help you fit in. Honest. Engineers don’t wear button-downs, and we don’t call people buddy. You’re my desi brother!” I slap him on the back jovially for good measure. “I get what you were saying before. We gotta look out for each other.” I smile.

Vikranth looks touched, but before I can continue, Stephen pokes his head into our doorway. I minimize my window again. At twenty-five, Stephen is the youngest manager here. He graduated college at nineteen and founded a massively successful startup that created dashboards of metrics for companies that manage large amounts of data. His thick blonde hair curls softly at the nape of his neck. I look down, satisfied to see we’re both wearing the same shoes and overpriced jeans.

“Vikranth! Samir!” He studies the calendar app on his phone. “Can one of you remind me who my one-on-one is with today?” He’s got the information open on his calendar, but he always forgets our names and can’t tell us apart. Vikranth thinks he’s forgetful. I think he’s racist.

“With me,” I reply, hiding my annoyance. This is the tenth time I’ve had to introduce myself to my own manager.

“With you...Samir,” Stephen says. I see his eyes dart back and forth between my face and my name on his calendar. He’s trying to commit my image to his memory, though I suspect it will vanish soon. He retreats toward his office. I maximize the Audrey window and watch her scroll through makeup tutorials on TikTok. Vikranth glances at my screen but says nothing, to my relief. If he’s not calling out my shadowing, that means my plan is working.

“Hey, brother,” Vikranth says, smiling. “Do you think Stephen has that disease Brad Pitt has? Prosopagnosia?” I clear my throat to muffle a laugh. I’d heard of this neurological condition before. It’s where the brain is unable to recognize known faces.

“It’s an interesting theory,” I say, nodding my head in mock consideration.

“It’s my only explanation for why he can’t remember our names. Face blindness.”

“You make a great point,” I say. Audrey is about to record a video, presumably to post on

TikTok, and I don’t want to be distracted by Vikranth’s presence. “Hey, you wanna ask around, see what other people think? If we know the real story, we could help him.”

Vikranth runs off like an excited puppy. I go back to Audrey. She hits record and starts dancing to a popular hip-hop song. Her arms pump up and down in tight fists. She swivels her butt from side to side, peeking at the camera flirtatiously when her butt bounces. I’m entranced by the way she moves. She pulls a boy who was sitting outside the camera’s frame into her routine, and I watch as he plants a kiss on her cheek on the last beat of the song. It’s cute, bound to get thousands of views. She stops recording, but I continue observing. The USR can access the camera and mic even when they’re not on. Audrey pushes the boy off her and berates him for his sloppy dancing and wet kiss. I’m caught off guard at how quickly she’s turned on the guy she seemed infatuated with when the cameras were rolling. But I’m not shocked. I know that Audrey, like everyone in the world, is capable of putting on an act for her own self-interests.

There are two hours left in the day, and I’m nearly caught up. I’ll easily finish on time. I load the last phone into the USR and watch as User3 attempts to unlock a device that I can tell isn’t theirs. Unlocking a phone with facial recognition is fairly seamless from the user’s perspective. You just look at it, and it opens. But in the background, the thousands of dots mapped to User3’s face are being compared to a reference pattern. In the USR portal I can see how far off User3’s face mapping is from the reference, and I watch as the algorithm does its job correctly and locks out the imposter. I can see User3’s face side-by-side with the reference image. The two are nothing alike. User3 has black hair and brown skin, wide-set eyes, and a smooth, round face. RealUser is a 50-something white dude.

I picture User3’s desperation to gain access to the phone, but what he’s attempting is silly, and has no shot of success. He could never in a million years pass for a white man. I wonder if this is how Vikranth sees me. A tryhard who goes to extreme lengths to be something that will always be out of reach. The key difference between me and User3 is that I’m aware of and complicit in my own whitewashing. User3 likely doesn’t know who he’s trying to impersonate.

Who are you? The screen flashes this confrontational message when a user’s face is declined. User3 enters a 6-digit passcode to bypass facial recognition.

Who are you? User3 tries a different passcode.

Who are you? One try left. User3 enters part of their next passcode attempt, but stops before hitting the last digit. I imagine him searching through other objects belonging to RealUser that might be nearby—a wallet, backpack, or diary—something that would reveal a birthday or anniversary or other numerical string of personal significance. Passcodes are almost never random. The USR portal nudges me to hit REJECT, to put an end to this sham and lock out User3 for good. Just as I’m about to deny User3, Stephen comes by again, this time carrying a clipboard with an illustration of our office plan.

“Hey...you,” he yells in my direction. “We’re moving hallways to make room for more engineers. I need to confirm who sits where. You share an office with Samir, right?”

“I am Samir,” I say coolly.

“Right! Of course, my bad,” he laughs and walks away without an apology.

Fucking again, seriously? Twice in one day is a record, even for Stephen. The USR portal nudges me to make a decision about User3. Accept or reject. I reflect on Vikranth’s accusation, that I was rejecting my culture and obsessed with whiteness. I finally get his point. Everything I’m doing —the way I dress and speak, my hair — it doesn't matter. I will never be accepted by Stephen. I’ll always be a random brown person he can never identify. I act swiftly and against my better judgment, overriding the algorithm’s decision and unlocking the device for User3. This is a fireable offense, but there’s an unexpected thrill in my noncompliance, in knowing that what I’d done could ruin the RealUser’s life. There’s also this rush in hitting ACCEPT in the USR portal, in helping User3 gain acceptance in a way I never could.

User3 proceeds to the Gmail app, searches for “credit card number” and “passwords,” and finds multiple emails with account information for Citicard and Bank of America. I feel a surge of adrenaline as User3 navigates to the Target app, where they change the delivery location to their home address. As they fill their cart with TVs, a Nintendo Switch, and paper towels, I start coming down from my high, suddenly horrified by what I’ve done.

I remember what Stephen said during the launch meeting of the USR project. If you accidentally let in an imposter, you can fix your error, as long as you do it within two minutes. I refresh the USR portal and hit REJECT for User3, but it’s too late. The system won’t allow it. I lingered too long. I can only shadow in horror as User3 searches for and finds RealUser’s social security number. The adrenaline rush I felt earlier gives way to guilt at the chaos I’ve created for RealUser, and the recognition that I’ll be fired soon.

What happens next? The USR portal will alert Stephen that a phone was incorrectly unlocked, and that the mistake wasn’t corrected, but not who was responsible. It’s one of the many flaws of the program, but his workaround is straightforward. Either I come clean on my own, or Stephen will call a team meeting to smoke me out in front of everyone. I could confess and explain that it was a misclick. Maybe he’ll recognize my integrity and spare me. I could offer to fix some of the haphazard features in the USR portal. That would make him look good in front of executives, and I might get promoted. There’s a way I could come out ahead in all this. I know what I have to do.

Stephen’s USR portal is open to the dashboard page when I enter his office. He’s standing at his desk. His portal is different from mine. Instead of users and phones, Stephen’s view shows a giant spreadsheet with totals representing business-critical data. He can manipulate the information to see productivity stats, error rates, and success metrics for the entire USR program. This must be the data he uses to justify the USR to leadership, to prove that the violation of our customers’ privacy is worth it. A cell flashes red on his screen, indicating my error, I presume.

“Stephen,” I say quietly, trying to get his attention. I’d prepared my confession speech on the walk over, complete with a soft suggestion for a promotion, but Stephen looks angry. I’ll need to tread carefully. He is preoccupied with the red cell. He manipulates the screen with his right hand, opening and closing a chart displaying error rates to see if the mistake is real.

“Hang on,” he snaps back, without looking at me. His right hand throws open five more charts in rapid succession, each one confirming what he already knows.

“Stephen, it was me,” I confess. “I...I unlocked the phone for the wrong user.”

“It was you?” He turns to face me, cheeks red with rage. “Why would you do that?” I’m actually more ashamed than I expected to be. Internally, I vow to never do anything

like this again, though even as I’m making the vow, I’m wondering whether I’ll keep it. To Stephen I say, “I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”

Before I have the chance to explain, Stephen opens the CC bot portal to fire me. He’s on the order screen now, filling in fields to summon a bot with the ease of buying a sweater online. I need to pivot, to find some other way out of this mess, but Stephen’s outrage is propelling him faster than I can process.

“Name?” he asks without looking at me. My mind goes blank.

“What is your name?” he demands. I say nothing. My lips refuse to part. This is the third time today Stephen has forgotten my name. Vikranth may have been right about my obsession with whiteness, but I was right about Stephen being a racist.

“Vikranth Iyer,” I say. I speak the words with the ease of someone well practiced in deceit. I’d walked into Stephen’s office with the intention of confessing, but he’d offered me a narrow opening in which to slither in, so what choice did I have? In all honesty, I believe I’ve done what anyone in my position would do, if given the opportunity to sink or swim. Even so, my inner voice acknowledges that Vikranth doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to him. And yet, even though I don’t mean to be callous, this is business. This is the American way. He will understand this when he’s lived here long enough, when he’s loosened up a bit. I don’t owe him anything just because we’re both of Indian descent. We are simply co-workers, a tenuous social link unencumbered by the debt of true friendship.

Before I turn to leave Stephen’s office, our eyes meet again, and for a second I see the briefest flash of recognition in his gaze, as if he knows who I really am. Of course it would be my luck that Stephen would finally recognize me after ten months of confusing me for Vikranth. Today of all days. But the spark in his eyes retreats, and I’m safe.

I walk down the hall toward my office. At that moment, the CC bot comes whirling over and brakes in front of Vikranth. His eyes dart anxiously from the CC bot to me. The bot extends its arms and spins Vikranth’s chair so they’re face-to-bot-face. Vikranth Iyer, it announces. The bot’s arms clutch the shoulders of Vikranth’s collared shirt. I regard the CC bot with admiration for correctly identifying Vikranth. This inhuman machine, a jumble of metal and sensors, has accomplished what even our own manager could not. It is soulless and obedient, devoid of emotions, and single-minded in following its given commands to the letter. It will never be fooled into thinking it’s one of the guys, will never assimilate or fit in with us humans. That’s not what it desires because it has no desires. I’m suddenly jealous of this bot with no feelings that can be hurt, no race that can be targeted, no identity that can be diminished.

Vikranth stands up from his chair in a panic. “Are you firing me?” he says to the bot. He turns to me. “Is this thing firing me?”

“Dude, I have no idea,” I say gently, not wanting to add to his agitation. I feel guilty about the situation, but I also want this to be over quickly. There is still a non-zero probability that I could be fired instead of him. I will be safe only after Vikranth is out because even if Stephen later learns what I've done, his ego will prevent him from admitting to an error. It will be best if I don’t draw attention to myself.

Vikranth’s left hand palms his forehead. “This must be some kind of mistake!” He’s right, of course, but the CC bot can’t process dissent, so it carries on, stripping Vikranth’s badge and assembling a box for his personal effects. The bot scans the room and retrieves a fake potted succulent and a small sandalwood bobblehead of Ganesha, depositing both into the box. “I know you did something to get me into trouble. You’re a traitor to your people, man. What’s wrong with you?” Vikranth turns to me, bot arm still secured around his wrist.

I’m stunned into silence. It’s one thing to accuse me of rejecting my culture, but another to suggest I’d sell out my people. But that’s exactly what I’ve done. I’m both selfish and a backstabber. The noise attracts the attention of the people in our hallway, who emerge from their offices to rubberneck at the commotion. I can sense Vikranth’s reluctance to make a scene. That isn’t what obedient people do. They comply in silence even when they know they’re being wronged, making themselves easy targets for assholes like me. The CC bot leads Vikranth down the hall. I follow them at a safe distance, in case the CC bot suddenly redirects its focus to me. I watch as Vikranth is led outside and released. His shirt has come untucked, his perfectly pressed collar undone. He walks right up to the building and smushes his nose against the glass, making a visor out of his right hand to block out the sun. Even so, I know he can’t see me, though my face is inches from his. I am as invisible to Vikranth now as I’ve always been to Stephen.

Vikranth will walk away from here today and tell his family exactly what happened, how he was fired from this job without reason. But his immigrant resilience precludes him from wallowing, so he’ll dust himself off, and in a few months, land his next American dream job as a senior software engineer at a social media company. Stephen will dissolve the USR program and reboot it as USR 2.0, this time with more safeguards to prevent accidental unlocks for the wrong user. I will advocate to retain the technical framework that allows me to shadow, on the grounds that it would be valuable to the entire company to have more data on our users, not less. Stephen will applaud my suggestion and say,“Great sense of initiative, Jameel,” though he will look at me later that same day with a puzzled expression and ask, “Didn’t I just fire you?”

Twelve years from now, Vikranth will fail to recognize me when we are both having dinner on a Friday night with our wives, eating in the same Chinese hot pot restaurant in the Inner Sunset, a few tables apart. My hair is almost completely straight, longer and shaggier, and I’ve streaked it blonde. I’ve packed on about twenty-five pounds.

“Hey, Vikranth!” I’ll say, going over to his table. “It’s Samir. We shared an office over a decade ago, remember? How have you been, buddy?” The passing of time has given me the unearned confidence that he will definitely want to talk to me. It’s been so long. We’re older now. All is forgiven.

His head will tilt when I use his pet name, but he won’t seem to recognize me. “Man, that was so long ago,” he’ll say. “What was your name again?”

I will repeat my name and a few descriptors about our office to jog his memory. And even though he doesn’t show a spark of remembrance, that won’t stop me from the verbal diarrhea I will spew, like an anxious criminal relieved to be confessing. But I won’t actually confess anything, I will instead tell him how I bought a new house in Burlingame and take a commuter shuttle to work. The monologue will make me feel good about myself, about how much I’ve grown since the incident.

“I’m happy for you,” Vikranth will say, and it will be the last thing he says to me because I will never see him again.

He and his wife will grab their leftovers and leave, and because I’ll hear him mumble “USR portal” under his breath, I’ll know he really did recognize me. As Vikranth walks to his Porsche in the parking lot behind the restaurant, I will wonder if he’s more successful than I am. If, in deceiving Stephen and keeping my job, I’d set Vikranth’s success into motion instead of mine, by mistake. If I’d allowed myself to be fired maybe I would be the one driving the Porsche. But what will stick with me most from that evening is the T-shirt Vikranth will be wearing. I’ll wonder if he wore it to work that day instead of a starched-collar shirt, and if he remembers that I was the one who taught him to do that.

Prabha Kannan is a writer based in the Bay Area. Her writing has been published in The New Yorker, Stanford University's Artificial Intelligence Institute, and VentureBeat. She was long listed for The Masters Review 2023 Winter Fiction Prize. She also served as the head writer for Siri, Apple's A.I. assistant.