I am seventy years old and my thumb is currently cramping from a four-hour marathon in the Zone. My daughter thinks I spend my evenings in la oración praying for her wayward husband or maybe crocheting another useless blanket for the church raffle. Truth is I’m carrying a squad of fifteen-year-olds through a hail of sniper fire while they scream about glitches and noobs. I have a 2.4 K/D ratio. I am a god among children and they don’t even know my name. I keep the mic muted. Always. I’ve seen what happens when a woman speaks in those lobbies, let alone someone who sounds like their abuela asking if they’ve eaten. They’d call me ancient. They’d make jokes about dust and hip replacements. So I remain a silent, lethiferous shadow. I communicate through pings and tactical crouching. It is the only place in my life where I am not just a vessel for someone else’s filial piety or a relic of the Old Country. Tonight was bad though. My grandson—the one who taught me how to use the tablet so I could watch church services—joined my lobby by accident. He didn't recognize my tag. He started talking trash, saying my movement was cracked but my skins were basic. I almost unmuted. I almost told him I saw him wipe his nose on the curtains this morning. I didn't. I just dropped him a legendary shield and let him take the final kill. Pathological, isn't it? Buying his affection in a digital wasteland because I can't talk to him over dinner. The adrenaline is disgusting. My heart beats like a trapped bird against my ribs and my eyes are stinging from the blue light. I should be sleeping. I should be the dignified matriarch they want me to be, the one who smells like sofrito and quiet dignity. Instead I’m googling best loadouts for season five and drinking cold coffee at 2 AM. It’s a pathetic juxtaposition. A grandmother of six with better aim than a varsity athlete. My daughter knocked on the door ten minutes ago because she heard me hiss when I got flanked. I hid the device under my pillow like a smutty magazine. I told her I was just coughing. She gave me that look—the one where she wonders how much longer I’ll be a burden on her guest room. She has no idea I’m the one paying for the high-speed internet she brags about to her friends. I pay for it so I don't lag when the circle closes. The lobby is loading again. My hands are shaking but I can't stop. If I stop, I’m just an old woman waiting for the end. In the game, I’m a predator. I’m fast. I’m anonymous. I’m going back in because the silence in this house is louder than any explosion. I hope I don't see my grandson again tonight. I might actually kill him this time.