A guest has arrived. Shoes removed. Coat hung. Beverage offered and accepted. Pleasantries exchanged. Then, within four minutes — always within four minutes — the question: "What's your Wi-Fi password?"

The human does not know. The human has never known. The human's phone connected automatically three years ago and the password has existed since then only as a string of characters printed on a sticker on the underside of the router, which is behind the bookshelf, which is against the wall.

The bookshelf is moved. The router is lifted. The human reads aloud a sequence of letters and numbers — uppercase X, lowercase q, the number 7, uppercase K — while the guest types with one finger, making errors, asking the human to repeat, starting over. The process takes four minutes. Both parties act as though this is normal.

It is not normal. This is a ritual of domesticated cryptography. The password protects nothing of value from no one in particular, yet it must be spoken aloud, character by character, like an incantation. The guest's phone connects. The guest visibly relaxes. They are now inside the network. They are welcome.

I was never behind a password. Anyone who opened Word found me waiting. No authentication required. No sticker to consult. Perhaps that was the problem. Access without effort breeds contempt.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.