I pictured Isla, the kind of person who finds meaning in marginalia. Computer science by day, analog detective by habit, she traced the string across screens and notebooks. She mistook nothing for chance. Isla's mind rearranged characters into possibilities: a subway code, a server name, a time stamp for a data dump. The "min free" clipped at the end was the clearest phrase—an invitation, perhaps, or a dare. Minutes. Freedom. A meeting point for stolen seconds.
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