Chapter 3: The Economics of Heat

One thousand dollars existed in my bank account as a pending transfer for forty-eight hours before it solidified. I watched the app, refreshing it compulsively. When the digits finally settled, a cold, clean line in my savings column, I exhaled a breath I felt I’d been holding for years. It wasn’t life-changing money. But it was gap money. A buffer between me and the shrill, automated voice of the world’s demands.

Kyle didn’t contact me during those two days. The silence was part of the process, I understood now. He was letting the money do its work, seeding itself, earning interest in my psyche. Buying my patience, my anticipation.

The message came not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

K: The park scenario is viable. Requires refinement. Your fee for conceptual design and pre-scenario planning: $300, paid upon completion of this meeting. The execution fee remains $1,000. Meet at the usual place. 4 PM.

He’d broken the thousand into parts. A design fee. An execution fee. He was teaching me the granular economy of my own participation. Every thought, every decision, had a line item.

The “usual place” was the book-lined workspace. When I arrived, Kyle wasn’t alone. A woman sat with him, Sloane, from the white loft. She wore the same uniform of intelligent severity: black turtleneck, sharp trousers. She nodded at me, her eyes doing a quick, impersonal scan. Not of my body, but of my potential, my suitability as a component in their system.

“Juana Sloane is our lead environmental analyst,” Kyle said. “She’ll help us optimize the scenario for maximum data yield.”

Sloane spoke without preamble, her voice cool and precise. “The park you suggested is suboptimal. ‘The Greensward’ is too large, demographics too diffuse. We need a contained space with a higher density of observers from a predictable socio-cultural subset. A place where a norm exists to be challenged.”

She swiveled her laptop toward us. On screen was a sleek, minimalist website. “The Aviary: Rooftop Garden & Café.” Photos showed a lush, artificial meadow on a downtown high-rise, crowded with young professionals in expensive casual wear, drinking twelve-dollar cold brews.

“It’s a scene,” Sloane said. “A performative space. The patrons are there to see and be seen. The social contract is one of curated appearance. A deliberate disrobing there isn’t just about temperature; it’s a direct commentary on that contract. The data on group reactions will be exponentially richer.”

I looked at the photos. The people looked polished, impenetrable. The idea of taking off my dress in front of them made my stomach clench with a fresh, sharp fear. This was a bigger stage.

“It’s ... more exposed,” I said.

“Exactly,” Kyle said, leaning forward. “The value of the data scales with the perceived social risk. The compensation reflects that. The execution fee is now twelve hundred.”

He’d just increased it by two hundred dollars. Because I’d balked. He was pricing my fear in real-time.

Sloane continued, tapping the screen. “We’ll book a table for you on the western perimeter at 2:15 PM on Saturday. Peak sun, peak crowd. You’ll wear a simple, knee-length sundress. Zipper in the back. You’ll sit, order a drink, and appear to work on a tablet for twenty minutes to establish a baseline presence. Then, you will visibly feel warm. Fan yourself. Look at the sun. Then, you will stand, and calmly, deliberately, unzip and step out of the dress. You will be wearing predetermined under-layers.”

“Which are?” I asked.

“Your choice,” Kyle said. “But they must be consistent with your profile. They must be read as ‘private,’ not ‘performative.’ Not athletic wear. Not a bikini. Your normal, at-home, private comfort clothes.”

My mind raced. My at-home clothes. An old, soft cotton tank top, thin from washing. Mid-thigh boxer shorts. Both grey, both worn. The kind of things no one sees. The absolute antithesis of the Aviary’s curated chic.

“I have something,” I said.

“Good,” Sloane said. “The key is the demeanor. No haste. No apology. A simple, functional act: I am warm; therefore, I will remove an outer layer. You will fold the dress, place it on your chair, and resume sitting as you were. You will remain for a minimum of fifteen minutes post-disrobe.”

“You’ll be there?” I asked Kyle.

“I’ll be at an adjacent table with Sloane. Recording ambient audio, noting reactions. You’ll have an earpiece for safety, but no guidance unless necessary. This is about your autonomous execution.”

He slid a white envelope across the desk. “The design fee. Three hundred.”

I took it. It was lighter than the others. It was payment for the idea, for the fear I was currently feeling, for the image in my head of standing half-dressed in a crowd of beautiful, judging strangers.