Arthur Velasquez, age sixty-seven, held the iPad like a foreign relic. It was a gift from his daughter, Maya, who lived two thousand miles away. “For FaceTime,” she’d said. “So I can see your face.”

Maya guided him first to the App Store—a blue icon with three white sticks that he’d always been afraid to open. “Too many buttons,” he’d told her once. Now, under her patient command, he found the Netflix app. Then the search bar. Then The Treasure of the Sierra Madre .

“Thank you, Maya.”