I wake up sideways by the foot of my bed, the open Xanax bottle on my nightstand, the vape pen still in my hand. Matt Damon, or is it Matthew McConaughey, stares down at me from my Interstellar movie poster.

The drapes are closed and the light seeping through the narrow gaps is a deep orange. Rolling over to the head of my bed, I reach onto the nightstand for my iPhone to check the time. That's all I've been using my phone for lately – to check the time, to call Mom, and sometimes to google stuff. But even google can be bad. Even google can lull you into a different realm. You can google Olive Garden and an hour later you're reading up on The Age of Enlightenment in Wikipedia. 

School is starting in three days. Where did the summer go? Every summer seems shorter and shorter. In grade one and two the summer lasted forever. Now, it comes and goes like an episode of Friends. The One With The Dead Body.

I don't want to go back to school. But I kind of do, if only to see Nadia. To see her in real life, not framed within a laptop screen.

Hashtag I can't remember to forget you.

Ding.

A new email message comes in.

But wait – the message is from Facebook:

From: Facebook

To: Simon Jackson

Omar Brooks commented on a photo you posted.

Today at 9:54am

WTF?

<View in Facebook>

WTF is right. What in the actual fuck? I didn't post a photo. In fact, I deleted my Simon Jackson account. Didn't I?

I login to Simon's page and I can hear the blood pounding past my ear drums. The entire page is different, Simon's profile pic, Simon's cover photos, Simon's photo albums, all show one photo—the same photo being posted over and over -- the wooded area where I hid Gravy's body. Jay Gravy is even tagged in every photo.

Fuck.

More people are already commenting on the pic.

Wade Cherron

Today at 9:58am

oookay

Leonard Shelby likes the photo.

Leonard Shelby likes the photo?

I click on Leonard's page and it's different, too. His profile pic is a violet neon sign saying VACANCY. I click the next photo. It's twin cell towers in a field of yellow grass. The next photo is a red door with the number 6 nailed over the peephole. The last photo is a metallic plate engraved with the number HD-4418.

I need to calm down. Sucking a long pull on my vape, I exhale a thick cloud of THC. I click on the Help button on Facebook, then Report a Problem. I type:

          I've been hacked. Please help.

Within an hour I get a private message from Alex from Facebook, not in my regular inbox, but in my "Support Inbox" which I didn't know I had.

Alex types:

Good morning Simon, how can I help you?

          I'm having a problem with my profile.

We have a Help Centre with answers to common issues.

          I tried that. My problem isn't there.

Okay then, tell me what your problem is.

          My account came back to life.

I'm sorry, Simon. Please explain.

          I deleted my account, and now it's back up.

Your account has been compromised?

          How can it be compromised if it doesn't exist?

Your account is never permanently deleted. If you login with the same user ID and password, your deleted account will be restored.

          That's the problem, I want it permanently deleted.

I'm afraid that's not possible, Simon. I recommend changing your password before deleting your account again.

          If you're suggesting someone guessed my password, that's impossible. My passwords are impossible to guess.

Do you often sign in from shared devices?

          No. Only my laptop and my phone.

Do other people use your laptop or phone?

          No one. My profile must have been hacked. Can you check if I was hacked?

I'm sorry, Simon, I'm not sure what you mean.

          I mean hacked. Like what they did with Ashley Maddison. Steal IDs and profiles.

Who is 'they', Simon?

The group. Anonymous.

I see. I can assure you, Simon, security is of the utmost importance to us, and we have never been breached.

          How would you know?

We would have records of the breach.

          Can you just tell me where my account is?

Do you mean the domain of your profile?

          No, I mean physically. Where is the server with my profile?

I'm not sure what you mean, Simon.

          I mean your server farms. What's the address?

I can't give you that information, Simon.

          But it's my profile.

Can I get your phone number please?

          Why?

I will escalate your concern to my manager and he will call you.

Simon?

Are you there?