For My 56th Birthday, My Stepdaughter Gave Me A Pair Of Earbuds. I Was Genuinely Happy—Until I Showed Them At Work. One Coworker Leaned In For A Closer Look, And His Expression Changed. “Don’t Use These,” He Whispered. “You Need To Report This Today.” I Didn’t Make A Scene. I Took Them Off, Filed A Report, And Let The Paper Trail Do Its Job. Three Days Later…

My boots crunched as I walked to the car. At home, Elaine was watching TV. I almost told her.

Almost. But I didn’t want to sound crazy. I didn’t want to accuse her daughter of something I couldn’t even explain yet.

The next morning, I drove to the Lucas County Police precinct on my lunch break. The waiting area smelled like burnt coffee. A TV in the corner played the weather.

When Detective Harris—his badge said—came out, he looked like a man counting days to retirement. They didn’t ask many questions. They took the earbuds into a back room.

I sat alone listening to my own breathing. After a while, I heard a faint electronic sound through the wall. A steady beep.

Beep beep. Harris came back with another man. Younger tech type.

Harris rested the earbuds on the table between us like evidence in a courtroom. “These aren’t standard,” he said. “They’ve been modified.

Audio pickup. Location data.”

My mouth went dry. “So someone could hear me?”

Harris didn’t answer right away.

He just asked, “Where do you usually wear them?”

The answer hit me harder than the question. At home. In the car.

On my walks. On phone calls with my buddy Frank about retirement, with my insurance agent about money, about my health. “Don’t confront anyone,” Harris said.

“Act normal.”

Normal? That was the hard part. Driving back to work, my hands shook on the steering wheel.

I thought about Megan’s neat handwriting, her smile at Thanksgiving, how easy it is to hurt someone when they want to trust you. That night, I placed the earbuds on the kitchen counter and stared at them. Small.

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