His desk faced the rest of the room. That was how he wanted it: his monitor between him and everything. His family did not care for it.

"Time for school," his father said. Nothing. "If you don't leave now, there won't be any spots left in the school lot." Nothing. "Do I have to get a prybar to pull your face away from that screen?" So he went, carrying the standard-issue teenage sullenness on his shoulders.

Every day, he moved closer to the screen. "You'll go nearsighted," said his papa. "You'll lose your computer privileges," said his father. He burrowed deeper into the liquid crystal light. "You'll get cancer and die," taunted his little sister, who didn't care what he stared at.

His father left a prybar on his desk. He pulled the screen closer. His papa left health risk pamphlets. He hunched closer. His sister left a drawing of his face with sinister, veinous tumors titled, "Then I get my own bathroom."

He moved closer. He hunched nearer. He blocked out more of the undesirable world. Until when his father directed him to school, he simply went. The monitor went too, wrapped around his head, a part of him.