Thinkingdog Publishing

There I was, minding my own business, when fate decided to play a cruel joke. I dropped my phone. Not from a rooftop, not into a pond, not even in one of those heart-stopping toilet disasters. Nope. It just slipped from my hand like it was auditioning for a role in a soap opera. Dramatic fall. Shattered screen. Exit stage left. So, I did what any reasonable person would do—I got a new one. Same brand, just the next model up. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. Wrong in the way a “surprise” villain shows up in chapter twenty-seven of a cozy mystery even though he hasn’t been in the book since chapter two. Apparently, in the five years since I last upgraded (yes, five years—I like to think of myself as loyal, not outdated), phones have learned how to argue with their owners. This new contraption asks me every five minutes if I “really meant to do that.” Why yes, Phone Overlord, I did mean to open my email. I’ve been opening my email since the dawn of Gmail, and I don’t need your judgment. And t...