WIRED goes on location--and on camera--with the cult hit. On March 16, 2026, at 5:45 pm in a leafy suburb of Atlanta called Sandy Springs, police pound on the door of a neglected French Country-style mansion, rifles at the ready, bodycams rolling. Minutes earlier, a distress call came from someone claiming to be hiding from a gunman in the mansion's downstairs bathroom. The dispatcher heard a gunshot ring out in the distance, then the line disconnected. "Open the door!" an officer yells. A calm young man with a mullet and woolly eyebrows steps out, hands raised. The police ask him who else is in the house. "Just my friends," he replies, as seven other young people, men and women, silently file out behind him, less evidently relaxed. They remain outside while two officers search the house. Inside the mansion there are no immediate signs of a massacre, but the decor alone arouses suspicion. All of the windows are frosted over, so only a chilly light leaks in. The place is a mess, and the walls are adorned with lurid, seemingly AI-generated art: a frowning baby holding an assault rifle, a rubber ducky bobbing in a mug of what looks like black coffee, a lidless and levitating eyeball crying into a martini glass. The rooms are painted primary colors, grass green and cherry red, like a kindergarten class. A vape dangles from a doorframe by a chain, suspended at mouth level. The pantry is practically empty. The bedroom is a dormitory featuring seven identical twin beds. No one is hiding in the bathroom. The call, it seems, was a prank. The police return to the driveway and ask, "What is it that you guys are doing here?" "We're just livestreaming," says a man in a camo hat named Matt. "You guys don't have any firearms or anything inside the house?" There are guns in the house, Matt says, for self-defense. Fans of their livestream can be obsessive, he explains, and tend to have perverse ideas about jokes. The officer asks to see their weapons, and they go downstairs. The room is cluttered with ergonomic swivel chairs, desks strewn with takeout containers and energy drinks, two flatscreen TVs, and a dozen computer monitors.

Erick Trickey is a writer in Boston. For a year, Rodriguez has worked 40-hour weeks as an apprentice test technician, examining IBM mainframes to confirm they work before shipping them to customers. In January, she'll move to a permanent position with a future salary that she says is "definitely much more than I ever thought I'd be making at 19." Rodriguez's opportunities with IBM came to her thanks to her high school, Newburgh Free Academy P-TECH. It's part of an innovative public-school model that combines grade 9-12 education with internships and tuition-free community college. P-TECH, which stands for Pathways in Technology Early College High School, has spread to 10 states and 17 countries since its founding in Brooklyn in 2011. The P-TECH network is growing fast.