Until my mother called, crying, asking why I hadn’t come to dinner on the anniversary of my father’s death. April 12. 8:00 PM. I had been home, I told her. On my couch. Watching television. I remembered the evening perfectly.

I tried to destroy it. Hammer. Fire. Submersion in saltwater. The manual healed within hours, its aluminum cover smoothing out dents, its screens rebooting with a soft chime.

A week later, I found the note tucked inside the back cover. Handwritten. Familiar looped handwriting—my uncle’s.