My pitch black bedroom is only lit by the glow of my laptop screen. I pace beside my bed, the floor creaking at my feet.

Is it true that what goes online stays forever--that there's no reaching it, like a helium balloon leaving your hand, then rising up a few inches, then a few feet, then a few meters, until it's a red speck against the clouds?

Or is there a place, a physical place, where my information is stored. A box of my data stored away with thousands of identical boxes. If I open the box—my box-- could I see my profile? Maybe under a microscope? What would it look like? Would there be some intricate patterns on a tiny microchip that says—this is Simon Jackson, and he likes Prada and Xanax and catfishing and killing fuckboys. Or did I occupy multiple boxes—maybe an entire row of boxes? 

Like Melvin said, the Internet is made of servers connecting all around the world, and one of those servers is me—my online identity. My fake identity. My true identity. I'm not sure which.

That's what I have to do. I have to destroy the thing.

I call Melvin. 

"Hello?" he answers, half asleep.

"Melvin, it's me."

"Hey," he groans, "I thought you were Anne."

"Listen, you told me there's server farms in Orilla."

"Yea."

"Where exactly?"

"It doesn't have a name. It's an unmarked facility," he yawns.

"You said you knew how to get there. Tell me how."

"Okay. I'll text it to you."

"Thanks. Please text me right now," I'm about to hang up but Melvin says something.

"Why do you need this again?" he mumbles, drifting off.

"What do you mean again?"

I wait for his answer but hear his snoring instead.