What are you doing Friday night? Writing a virus
– There’s something on your hand... – A forecast beetle maybe.
Moves his hand closer so that they can see better.
– Err, collects data, see it’s got a chip. – Right.
A moment of silence.
– I wrote this for you.
He gives her the phone, she reads:
Em Drive skrt skrt Exit Bag skrt skrt
– Thank you, very pretty. Just like a microcosm one’s life reflects the destiny of its generation.