She turned to him, serious now. “No. It’s not just a shortcut. It’s knowing that things can change. That something that’s bothering you doesn’t have to stay that way. All you need is someone to show you which button to hold.”

Lena had never thought of herself as a technology person. At sixty-three, she used her desktop computer for three things: emailing her daughter in Seattle, checking the weather, and playing Solitaire when the afternoon got too quiet. But lately, something had begun to bother her. The icons on her screen—the little folders, the recycling bin, the shortcut to her photo album—seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. And they were enormous.

He pulled over the creaky desk chair and sat down. Lena stood behind him, hands on her hips, watching intently.