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Ninety dollars of calculator. Three percent of which was used for calculating.

It was a piece of red cellophane the size of a dental floss strip. You put it on your hand. You learned things about yourself.

A red plastic brick, a cardboard wheel with fourteen tiny photos, a sticky lever that only went forward. You pressed your eyes against the rubber and squinted until the Pyramids almost looked like Pyramids.

Two hundred pages, fourteen endings, and roughly eleven of them killed you. You kept three fingers in the book at all times.

A foil bag, a sharp yellow straw, and one tiny silver dot that decided whether your lunch was a triumph or a wet shirt.

She wasn't real. The chart on the wall was. The race against a cartoon was. The little floating hands above the home row were the first interface we ever obeyed.