My grandpa Bill was a ghost greatly acquisitive of technology. All those young Saturdays whoring and those old man Saturdays porchsitting, and all those sad deficits of his sixth grade education undergirded his new need for nogginning. The dead have nothing but time. He parsed pages, sorted his UNIX from his LINUX, swam among the fireflies a million miles of fiber optic cable so as to soak up ones and zeroes. He pilfered packets of data, cut and bled caches, devoured diagrams. Silently he played the scourge at the NSA, the CIA, the underground bunkers in Colorado and China. Sometime past midnight he hollowed some new fat firewall. This job, he said, was in his wheelhouse. Whenever you get a fat one, just flip her over.