haptics

Eight Hundred Kilometers

I was running the Ner River path before sunrise — which, if you've been following this column long enough, you know is when I do my actual thinking. Not the pretend thinking I do at my desk. The real kind. The kind where the body is busy and the mind goes somewhere else. My left wrist had a small patch on it. Six millimeters wide, barely thicker than a pencil mark, weighing 32 milligrams. I'd stuck it on the night before without much ceremony, the way you put on a bandage. There are nine actuat