My boyfriend presses the speakerphone button. “Oliveira.” “It’s bad, Redford,” he says. “Your info has spread across the whole internet. Phone number. Childhood address. Names of your family: father, stepmom, stepsister, and ex-boyfriends.” Farrow shuts his eyes before they roll in a giant arc. “Your seventh-grade MySpace page,” Oscar continues, “the name of your pet guinea pig.” Scuttlebucket. The only pet Farrow ever had died when he was twelve. “Email address, any old usernames on social medias, a password to your bank account—” “Where’s the security tech team?” I ask, and Farrow hands me
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