The story
A small story.
One quiet evening, she sat across from me at dinner and put her phone face-down on the table.
"Can't there just be one that doesn't want anything from me?"
She'd been hunting for a period tracker for weeks. The first one wanted her email. The second one pinged her three times that day. The third one showed her an ad for prenatal vitamins she'd never asked about. The fourth one's privacy policy was sixteen scrolls long.
By the seventh, she'd given up and gone back to a paper notebook.
I sat with that for a while. Then I started sketching.