We stop for gas at a station a block off the freeway, on a route we have traveled multiple times a year for the entirety of my childhood. As we pull out, Dad boots the GPS unit, otherwise known as the Magic Box That Tells Us Where to Go:
Me: Are you turning on the Box to…find the freeway entrance?
Dad: I’m turning on the Box to turn on the Box. And to watch it writhe when we don’t take the route it wants us to.
Me: So basically, you’re tormenting it.
Dad: Yes. It’ll learn, eventually.
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