I have an old map of the city whose folds are held together with clear tape. I use the tiny numbers on streets to estimate addresses. It’s easier on my eyes. No radiation, no waves from the LCD screen; no traces. I choose not to enter the realm of the Machine whenever I can avoid it. Because every time you ask it a question and it answers, it knows. It knows and it remembers.

The trick is to avoid keywords. Don’t make the same mistake as those two suburban whack jobs out to commit the perfect crime because their aunts and younger sisters weren’t embracing the idea of living under sharia law in their bungalows. They were found guilty a few years ago when it was proven that they’d looked up “What’s the best place to hide a body,” and other key phrases, in a popular search engine.

With my method, you can be sure that the Machine loses interest after enough time has passed. It loses its scent. Time is my best friend. Time is the precious element I must respect. Since I can’t control time, I have to control myself.

I always come back to the places few people venture. I can just breathe easier there. Sure, I sometimes come across other people like me, listening to the sounds of the city echoing through a silent alley. The ones who have the time to really listen, the ones you see out in the park enjoying the Tuesday afternoon sun. The ones who know how to locate the openings and cracks that let a little sky peer through, the ones who leave secret messages on concrete with stencils, chalk, or spray paint. It takes whole months for them to get comfortable with my presence. Like me, these people hate surprises.

When they see me walking by on the day of my crime, there will be no “day of the crime” in their minds. Because they won’t have seen anything out of the ordinary. They’ll have no idea. Everything is perfectly normal for them. SNAFU: situation normal, all fucked up. Business as usual.