If I was at the top of my game, I probably would have resented The Book of Good Times coming in to take over my life, but I wasn’t.

My new mass was nothing compared to the gravitational pull of that book. I think I knew that, once I opened it, I was going to lose my agency. There was a part of me that wanted nothing more than that—the simplicity of tumbling down April’s gravity well again, not the complexity of real, important decisions, constant uncertainty, and existential dread.

Down I tumbled! Why not buy $100,000 in a stock I had never heard of?! If you get tens of billions of views, you make tens of millions of dollars. So a hundred grand was a lot, but bizarrely enough, it was no longer a lot.

I did what any self-respecting twenty-something would do. I called my dad, and he told me that I absolutely should not invest in strange unknown stocks. He was appalled at the entire idea. I think he felt a little like he’d failed as a father if I thought that buying stock in a random tiny company was a good idea. I hadn’t even told him the tip was delivered by a book I found in the trash.

But then, like any self-respecting twenty-something, I ignored him.

IGRI itself didn’t look suspicious. It was a company that had once been big enough to be publicly traded but that had gotten smaller and smaller until it fell off the major exchanges, but no one was interested in coming in and buying the whole thing. The company, in this case, was a cobalt-mining company that had mines in Canada. At one point it had been massively productive and valuable. But as IGRI mined what it had, the stock price dropped.

Why would someone want me to buy this stock?

The obvious answer was that someone was trying to manipulate the price of a penny stock. Like, convince a bunch of people that a book could read their future, get them to go on a date with a nice girl, and then tell them to buy the stock and sell it four days later. Except the fraudster sells it three days later and walks away with ten times more cash than they went in with.

None of this actually mattered, though, because this wasn’t about money or stocks or magic books; it was about April being alive. I wanted so badly for the mystery to end. I wanted my friend back. I wanted the piece of me that I’d lost put back so desperately that I would happily throw $100,000 into the hole of that hope.

Afterward, to distract myself from constantly checking the stock and researching cobalt, I watched video essays from a few of my favorite YouTubers and stressed out about when and what to text Bex. I was and am a firm believer that you shouldn’t wait to text someone after a first date. I will always be who I am, and I am not a person who thinks strategically about relationships. So I texted to tell her that I had a really great time. And then immediately after that I sent the best joke I could think of.

They swept that stage so much, but I feel like it never got any cleaner.

Her reply came in a half hour later.

Honestly, Andy, I sweep at work every day and I am not ashamed to admit that today it was a bit of a dance for me. Thanks for a great night.

I tried to not respond immediately, but I failed.

I’m headed out of town tomorrow, but would it be OK for me to call you when I get back?

Yup. ttys.

She was way too cool for me, but that was OK. Honestly, if we were just starting up a friendship, that would be doubling the number of friends I had in New York, which would be wonderful.

The “out of town” was an investment convention in France. I have no idea why, but they were paying me a lot, and it was hard to say no to big piles of cash. Look, I got off on the money. I know it’s gross, but April taught me to be honest.

The conference was in Cannes, a town on the Mediterranean that you have heard of because of the film festival, but that also is home to tons of other events. I was headed there to give a speech on the anniversary of the arrival of the Carls, and thus the anniversary of the first video I made with April. I didn’t really know how to feel about this date. It was both arbitrary and huge. It felt like something I wanted to commemorate somehow, if only in my own life and in New York.

But then I also wanted to completely ignore the milestone. I didn’t want to think about the fact that the last year, which had seemed like the whole rest of my life combined, had only been a year. And I had gotten used to not looking too hard at the things that hurt. That’s normal, or at least that’s what my very expensive therapist told me. And then there was the part where I didn’t have a topic that felt worthy of a momentous occasion.

I handled that conundrum the usual way: I went and checked out some of my favorite internet thinkers. These people had no idea what a huge influence they were on me, but all of my ideas were just amalgams of the stuff they were talking about. I tried to pull from a diverse group, Black women sci-fi authors, Chinese business analysts, nuclear disarmament experts, and of course YouTube video essayists. I hate-watched people with massive audiences and terrible ideas that were nonetheless resonating with people, and I watched the smart ones who had all my same biases. This was the only way I could have the number and quality of takes people expected of me. You watch four different videos, trying to keep all of them in your head at once, and then out flops an idea that looks and feels fresh and new. When I knew I was going to have to say something useful soon, I watched a LOT of videos.

It feels a little phony that my process works this way, like I’m an impostor who doesn’t have any real ideas, but I’m pretty sure this is just how ideas work.

The amazing thing about YouTube is that new channels just appear and disappear all the time. A new channel might pop up, and suddenly some smart lady from Baltimore is having a massive influence on the cultural dialogue.

There was a channel that had done just that thing in the last few months. It was called The Thread and it was weird. You almost had to be weird to get noticed these days. Good ideas alone weren’t usually enough. The Thread had uploaded his first video the week after April disappeared and it had gone pretty viral. It was about the song “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” His point was that we sing that song now while knowing pretty much what stars are. They’re big balls of protons and neutrons and electrons that gravity is smushing together so hard that fusion is happening.

But when the song was written, the wonder was legitimate. The person who wrote “Twinkle, Twinkle” didn’t know what stars were. In 1806, no one did! It was a beautiful video, aided by The Thread’s graphics and music, which were absolutely gorgeous.

It was, on its face, just interesting information in a beautiful package. But deeper than that, it was about how we as a society have learned so much so fast, and how we have adapted to big shifts in our understandings before. It was professional and thoughtful and it felt like it was about Carl without being about Carl.

But it wasn’t world-changing. It just looked like another popular video. But as the world started finding its new normal, The Thread’s videos started pushing more buttons and getting more political. And then The Thread actually broke a story, which was basically a brand-new thing for YouTube essay channels. In a video about money in politics, The Thread released a half dozen emails between a major donor and politicians of both parties guaranteeing that judges friendly to the donor’s company would be placed after the candidates were elected.

The Thread wasn’t just a YouTube channel anymore; it was news. The “Dark Money” video ended with information on how people could send encrypted, anonymous information, and ever since then, Thread videos had felt almost illicit. It was very James Bond.