Reputation(5)

The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

Murmurs from the hall: “Who’s doing this?” And then: “It’s a hack. Holy shit, we’re being hacked!” And then: “There’s probably malware on our computers. Our systems are probably dead!”

Hacked? Why would someone hack the Aldrich Charitable Giving Department? To expose our donors? Most of that stuff is public record. Perhaps someone is looking for donors’ bank information, or their SSNs? I reach for the phone to call security—but then, what is Glen, the sixty-five-year-old guard, going to do?

I put the receiver to my ear before I realize the office phone is dead, too. I grab my cell. That weird text message is still up. Get ready. Why would the hacker text me? I want to send a reply text, but I’m afraid. Replying could be as bad as clicking on those pop-up windows that unleash a virus on your hard drive. My phone contains more crucial information about work than my computer does.

On the monitor, the cryptic message dissolves, and a URL appears. I hover the mouse over it in anticipation. If my computer’s already dead, what’s the worst thing that can happen if I click on it? But when I try, the link isn’t active. I’m not directed to a browser.

I click the mouse over it again—still nothing. Frowning, I grab a pen and copy down the web address. Moments later, my screen goes dark. No new messages pop up. I flip the switch of my computer, but when the computer reboots, a small question mark blinks in the middle of the screen. I’m no IT expert, but even I know that means the operating system has been wiped.

Outside my office, everyone is exchanging numb glances. “Is this bad?” Betsy sounds frightened.

“Do you think they got our social security numbers?” That’s Bill, who deals with international donors.

“Did anyone write down that website that was on the screen?” asks Oscar, the youngest and techiest of the group.

“I did.” I step forward to show him the slip of paper on which I’d copied the link. “What do you think it is?”

Oscar squints at what I’ve written. “It looks like a file that’s hosted on Planett.” He types the file-sharing juggernaut’s address into his cell phone browser.

“Wait!” I cry. “What if your phone blows up?”

“Then I’ll blame you,” Oscar says. When he notices me scrambling to take the paper back, he quickly adds, “Jesus. I won’t. I’m curious, too.”

A crowd has formed. Oscar finishes typing the website into his phone and hits GO. I hold my breath, half expecting his phone to explode or the building to go up in flames. The screen shifts and, indeed, a Planett page appears. There is a list of folders, each of which seems clickable. Aaron, Boyd. Aaron, Corrine. Aaron, Desmond. Whose names are these?

Oscar scrolls down a little, and the Aarons disappear, and then I see a flash of Antonishyn, Magda, and Apatrea, Laura D. Wait, I know her—she’s a nurse in the Aldrich Hospital Department of Cardiology. She and her husband RSVP’d for the giving gala.

Then I see another name I know—Boyd, Sydney. Dr. Sydney Boyd is a professor in the journalism department who recently won a Pulitzer—I’ve been talking him up to a tech CEO and Aldrich grad who is considering making a major donation.

“Me?” Betsy’s finger stabs at the tiny screen. And there she is: Breck, Betsy. She looks terrified.

Oscar glances at Betsy hesitantly. “Do you want me to click on the folder?”

“No!” Betsy cries, but then she lets out a whimper. “Or, yes. Or, I don’t know! What if it says something awful?”

I appraise Betsy—late thirties, dumpy, a self-proclaimed Jimmy Buffett parrothead. What is her something awful?

Oscar hands Betsy his phone. “How about you click on it? Tell us what’s inside.”

Betsy gratefully takes the device and steps a few paces away from us. I’ve never been so curious about her in my life. What can I say? I’m a sucker for dirt on people.

“It’s . . . e-mail,” Betsy says slowly. “My work e-mail. All my work e-mails. And it goes back . . . forever.”

Jeremy hurries over. I do, too. The screen shows the inbox of her Aldrich.edu account. Most of the e-mail topics are about scheduling or the Aldrich Giving Gala; they’re dated as recently as five minutes ago.

“Are all your e-mails here?” Jeremy cries. “Does this mean everyone’s e-mails are?”

“If your name’s on that Planett list, then I’m guessing . . . yes?” Oscar sounds dazed.

“B-But I have sensitive information in my e-mails!” Jeremy’s voice rises an octave. “People’s account numbers! Telephone records!”

People murmur. Since Oscar’s phone doesn’t seem to have caught a virus, everyone sprints to their own phones to check for their names on the drive site. I do the same, and my name is there, Godfrey, Lynn L. I click on the folder. Inside, I see the same party e-mails I’ve just read on my monitor. There is a sent tab, too, and even a deleted folder, which is full of ads for Saks, Tiffany and Co., and reminders that I need to get my BMW serviced.

I return to the main folder, my heart in my throat. It doesn’t give me the best feeling to know that my whole department can read my e-mails if they want, especially because I tend to be a little biting about some of my colleagues in digital missives. But unlike Jeremy, I haven’t e-mailed sensitive bank information or exposed any of our clients’ personal details. Nor have I exposed any of my own personal details—at least not much beyond the odd exasperated rant to the boss.