You know that feeling when you're standing in front of a room of thirty kids and you can feel the air getting thin? It’s like the oxygen is being sucked out by the vents and you’re just standing there, trying to keep your feet heavy on the floor so you don't float away. I’ve been in this building for thirty-two years. I know every crack in the linoleum and which desks have the gum stuck under the left side. But lately, the air feels different. It feels like electricity, like everything is moving at a speed I can't touch, and I’m just a ghost trying to catch a bus that already pulled out of the station. You see the new girls, the ones who were born with a screen in their hands, and they move through those digital boards like they’re playing a grand piano. I go home at night and I write things down on index cards. Alt plus Tab. Windows plus D. I memorize them like I used to memorize my times tables back in the third grade. I practice the finger movements on the kitchen table while the microwave hums. If I can just hit the keys fast enough, they won't see the way my pulse jumps in my neck. They won't see that I'm terrified of a little glass box that thinks faster than I do. It happened again today during the prep period. Sarah, she’s barely twenty-four and her skin is so smooth it looks like it’s never seen a bad day, she leaned over to see why the projector was lagging. I felt my heart do that stutter-step, like a car engine trying to turn over in the dead of winter. I did it—I hit the shortcut to hide the screen before she could see the three different windows I had open just to figure out how to upload a simple file. I did it so smooth, so quick. She actually said, "Wow, Mrs. Miller, you're faster than I am!" And I just laughed that dry laugh that feels like SAWDUST in your throat. I felt like a thief who just got away with the crown jewels. But then you get home and the house is quiet and you realize you’re just TIRED. Your eyes itch from staring at the blue light and the paycheck is already spoken for before it even hits the bank account. Mortgage, the car, the insurance... you can't afford to be the old lady who doesn't get it. You can't afford to be the one they whisper about in the breakroom when the door is shut. So you keep the index cards in your purse, little secrets tucked between the tissues and the mints. You keep performing the magic trick every single morning. Sometimes you look at your hands on the keyboard and they don't look like they belong there. They look like they should be holding a real book, one with a spine that cracks when you open it, or maybe just holding onto a porch railing while the sun goes down. Instead, they're stiff and arched over plastic buttons, clicking and clicking into the dark.