“What does that even mean?”
We stare at the computer blankly, trying to make sense of the message before us.
“What . . . what does that even mean?” She asks me, brow furrowed and lips parted. The posture is alluring, confusion and all, and I have to force myself to turn back to the screen.
“They want us to know that they know it was us.”
“How could they know it was us though?”
“Mina, they track me.”
She turns to me, golden eyes locking onto my face, searching for more information than that. “Why would they do a thing like that?”
“Why does any government surveil someone?”
In Search of a Story 