Our anonymous submitter relates a tale of simplification gone bad. As this nightmare unfolds, imagine the scenario of a new developer coming aboard at this company. Imagine being the one who has to explain this setup to said newcomer.

Imagine being the newcomer who inherits it.

David's job should have been an easy one. His company's sales data was stored in a database, and every day the reporting system would query a SQL view to get the numbers for the daily key performance indicators (KPIs). Until the company's CTO, who was proudly self-taught, decided that SQL views are hard to maintain, and the system should get the data from one of those new-fangled APIs instead.

But how does one call an API? The reporting system didn't have that option, so the logical choice was Azure Data Factory to call the API, then output the data to a file that the reporting system could read. The only issue was that nobody on the team spoke Azure Data Factory, or for that matter SQL. But no problem, one of David's colleagues assured, they could do all the work in the best and most multifunctional language ever: C#.

But you can't just write C# in a data factory directly, that would be silly. What you can do is have the data factory pipeline call an Azure function, which calls a DLL that contains the bytecode from C#. Oh, and a scheduler outside of the data factory to run the pipeline. To read multiple tables, the pipeline calls a separate function for each table. Each function would be based on a separate source project in C#, with 3 classes each for the HTTP header, content, and response; and a separate factory class for each of the actual classes.

After all, each table had a different set of columns, so you can't just re-use classes for that.

There was one little issue: the reporting system required an XML file, whereas the API would export data in JSON. It would be silly to expect a data factory, of all things, to convert this. So the CTO's solution was to have another C# program (in a DLL called by a function from a pipeline from an external scheduler) that reads the JSON document saved by the earlier program, uses foreach to go over each element, then saves the result as XML. A distinct program for each table, of course, requiring distinct classes for header, content, response, and factories thereof.

Now here's the genius part: to the C# class representing the output data, David's colleague decided to attach one different object for each input table required. The data class would use reflection to iterate over the attached objects, and for each object, use a big switch block to decide which source file to read. This allows the data class to perform joins and calculations before saving to XML.

To make testing easier, each calculation would be a separate function call. For example, calculating a customer's age was a function taking struct CustomerWithBirthDate as input, use a foreach loop to copy all the data except replacing one field, and return a CustomerWithAge struct to pass to the next function. The code performed a bit slowly, but that was an issue for a later year.

So basically, the scheduler calls the data factory, which calls a set of Azure functions, which call a C# function, which calls a set of factory classes to call the API and write the data to a text file. Then, the second scheduler calls a data factory, which calls Azure functions, which call C#, which calls reflection to check attachment classes, which read the text files, then call a series of functions for each join or calculation, then call another set of factory classes to write the data to an XML file, then call the reporting system to update.

Easy as pie, right? So where David's job could have been maintaining a couple hundred lines of SQL views, he instead inherited some 50,000 lines of heavily-duplicated C# code, where adding a new table to the process would easily take a month.

Or as the song goes, Somebody Told Me the User Provider should use an Adaptor to Proxy the Query Factory Builder ...

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The utility closet Ellis had inherited and lived with for 17 years had been a cesspool of hazards to life and limb, a collection of tangible WTFs that had everyone asking an uncaring god, "What were they thinking?"

Every contractor who'd ever had to perform any amount of work in there had come away appalled. Many had even called over their buddies to come and see the stunning mess for themselves:

• All of the electrical components, dating from the 1980s, were scarily underpowered for what they were supposed to be powering.
• To get to the circuit breaker box—which was unlabeled, of course—one had to contort themselves around a water heater almost as tall as Ellis herself.
• As the house had no basement, the utility closet was on the first floor in an open house plan. A serious failure with said water heater would've sent 40 gallons (150 liters) of scalding-hot tsunami surging through the living room and kitchen.
• The furnace's return air vent had been screwed into crumbling drywall, and only prayers held it in place. Should it have fallen off, it would never have been replaceable. And Ellis' cat would've darted right in there for the adventure of a lifetime.
• To replace the furnace filter, Ellis had to put on work gloves, unscrew a sharp sheet-metal panel from the side of the furnace, pull the old filter out from behind a brick (the only thing holding it in place), manipulate the filter around a mess of water and natural gas pipes to get it out, thread the new filter in the same way, and then secure it in place with the brick before screwing the panel back on. Ellis always pretended to be an art thief in a museum, slipping priceless paintings around security-system lasers.
• Between the water tank, furnace, water conditioning unit, fiber optical network terminal, and router, there was barely room to breathe, much less enough air to power ignition for the gas appliances. Some genius had solved this by cutting random holes in several walls to admit air from outside. One of these holes was at floor-level. Once, Ellis opened the closet door to find a huge puddle on the floor, making her fear her hot water heater was leaking. As it turned out, a power-washing service had come over earlier that day. When they'd power-washed the exterior of her home, some of that water shot straight through one of those holes she hadn't known about, giving her utility closet a bonus bath.
• If air intake was a problem, venting the appliances' exhaust was an even worse issue. The sheet-metal vents had calcified and rusted over time. If left unaddressed, holes could've formed that would've leaked carbon monoxide into Ellis' house.

Considering all the above, plus the fact that the furnace and air conditioner were coming up on 20 years of service, Ellis couldn't put off corrective action any longer. Last week, over a span of 3 days, contractors came in to exorcise the demons:

• Upgrading electricals that hadn't already been dealt with.
• Replacing the hot water tank with a wall-mounted tankless heater.
• Replacing the furnace and AC with a heat pump and backup furnace, controlled by a new thermostat.
• Creating new pipes for intake and venting (no more reliance on indoor air for ignition).
• Replacing the furnace return air vent with a sturdier one.
• Putting a special hinged door on the side of the furnace, allowing the filter to be replaced in a matter of seconds (RIP furnace brick).

With that much work to be done, there were bound to be hiccups. For instance, when the Internet router was moved, an outage occurred: for no good reason, the optical network terminal refused to talk to Ellis' Wifi router after powering back up. A technician came out a couple days later, reset the Internet router, and everything was fine again.

All in all, it was an amazing and welcome transformation. As each new update came online, Ellis was gratefully satisfied. It seemed as though the demons were finally gone.

Unbeknownst to them all, there was one last vengeful spirit to quell, one final WTF that it was hell-bent on doling out.

It was late Friday afternoon. Despite the installers' best efforts, the new thermostat still wasn't communicating with the new heat pump. Given the timing, they couldn't contact the company rep to troubleshoot. However, the thermostat was properly communicating with the furnace. And so, Ellis was left with the furnace for the weekend. She was told not to mess with the thermostat at all except to adjust the set point as desired. They would follow back up with her on Monday.

For Ellis, that was perfectly fine. With the historically cold winter they'd been enduring in her neck of the woods, heat was all she cared about. She asked whom to contact in case of any issues, and was told to call the main number. With all that squared away, she looked forward to a couple of quiet, stress-free days before diving back into HVAC troubleshooting.

Everything was fine, until it wasn't. Around 11AM on Saturday, Ellis noticed that the thermostat displayed the word "Heating" while the furnace wasn't actually running. Maybe it was about to turn on? 15 minutes went by, then half an hour. Nothing had changed except for the temperature in her house steadily decreasing.

Panic set in at the thought of losing heat in her home indefinitely. That fell on top of a psyche that was already stressed out and emotionally exhausted from the last several days' effort. Struggling for calm, Ellis first tried to call that main number line for help as directed. She noticed right away that it wasn't a real person on the other end asking for her personal information, but an AI agent. The agent informed her that the on-call technician had no availablity that weekend. It would pencil her in for a service appointment on Monday. How did that sound?

"Not good enough!" Ellis cried. "I wanna speak to a representative!"

"I understand!" replied the blithe chatbot. "Hold on, let me transfer you!"

For a moment, Ellis was buoyed with hope. She'd gotten past the automated system. Soon, she'd be talking with a live person who might even be able to walk her through troubleshooting over the phone.

The new agent answered. Ellis began pouring her heart out—then stopped dead when she realized it was another AI agent, this time with a male voice instead of a female one. This one proceeded through nearly the same spiel as the first. It also scheduled her for a Monday service appointment even though the other chatbot had already claimed to have done so.

This was the first time an AI had ever pulled such a trick on Ellis. It was not a good time for it. Ellis hung up and called the only other person she could think to contact: her sales rep. When he didn't answer, she left a voicemail and texts: no heat all weekend was unacceptable. She would really appreciate a call back.

While playing the horrible waiting game, Ellis tried to think about what she could do to fix this. They had told her not to mess with the thermostat. Well, from what she could see, the thermostat was sending a signal to the furnace that the furnace wasn't responding to for whatever reason. It was time to look at the docs. Fortunately, the new furnace's manual was resting right on top of it. She spread it open on her kitchen table.

OK, Ellis thought, this newfangled furnace has an LED display which displays status codes. Her old furnace had lacked such a thing. Lemme find that.

Inside her newly remodeled utility closet, she located the blinking display, knelt, and spied the code: 1dL. Looking that up in the doc's troubleshooting section, she found ... Normal Operation. No action.

The furnace was OK, then? Now what?

Aside from documentation, another thing Ellis knew pretty well was tech support. She decided to break out the ol' turn-it-off-and-on-again. She shut off power to both the furnace and thermostat, waited a few minutes, then switched everything back on, crossing her fingers.

No change. The indoor temperature kept dropping.

Her phone rang: the sales rep. He connected her with the on-call technician for that weekend, who fortunately was able to arrive at her house within the hour.

One tiny thermostat adjustment later, and Ellis was enjoying a warm house once more.

What had happened?

This is where an understanding of heat pumps comes into play. In this configuration, the heat pump is used for cooling and for heating, unless the outside temperature gets very cold. At that point, the furnace kicks in, which is more efficient. (Technology Connections has some cool videos about this if you're curious.)

Everything had been running fine for Ellis while the temperatures had remained below freezing. The problem came when, for the first time in approximately 12 years, the temperature rose above 40F (4C). At that point, the new thermostat decided, without telling Ellis, I'm gonna tell the HEAT PUMP to heat the joint!

... which couldn't do anything just then.

Workaround: the on-call technician switched the thermostat to an emergency heat mode that used the furnace no matter what.

Ellis had been told not to goof around with the thermostat. Even if she had, as a heat pump neophyte, she wouldn't have known to go looking for such a setting. She might've dug it up in a manual. Someone could've walked her through it over the phone. Oh, well. There is heat again, which is all that matters.

They will attempt to bring the heat pump online soon. We shall see if the story ends here, or if this becomes The WTF That Wouldn't Die.

P.S. When Ellis explained the AI answering service's deceptive behavior, she was told that the agent had been universally complained about ever since they switched to it. Fed up, they told Ellis they're getting rid of it. She feels pretty chuffed about more people seeing the light concerning garbage AI that creates far more problems than it solves.

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On Thanksgiving Day, Ellis had cuddled up with her sleeping cat on the couch to send holiday greetings to friends. There in her inbox, lurking between several well wishes, was an email from an unrecognized sender with the subject line, Final Account Statement. Upon opening it, she read the following:

Dear Ellis,

Your final account statement dated -1 has been sent to you. Please log into your portal and review your balance due totaling #TOTAL_CHARGES#.

Payment must be received within 30 days of this notice to avoid collection. You may submit payment online via [Payment Portal Link] or by mail to:

Chamberlin Apartments
123 Main Street
Anytown US 12345

If you believe there is an error on your account, please contact us immediately at 212-555-1212.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Chamberlin Apartments

Ellis had indeed rented an apartment managed by this company, but had moved out 16 years earlier. She'd never been late with a payment for anything in her life. What a time to receive such a thing, at the start of a long holiday weekend when no one would be able to do anything about it for the next 4 days!

She truly had so much to be grateful for that Thanksgiving, and here was yet more for her list: her broad technical knowledge, her experience working in multiple IT domains, and her many years of writing up just these sorts of stories for The Daily WTF. All of this added up to her laughing instead of panicking. She could just imagine the poor intern who'd hit "Send" by mistake. She also imagined she wasn't the only person who'd received this message. Rightfully scared and angry callers would soon be hammering that phone number, and Ellis was further grateful that she wasn't the one who had to pick up.

"I'll wait for the apology email!" she said out loud with a knowing smile on her face, closing out the browser tab.

Ellis moved on physically and mentally, going forward with her planned Thanksgiving festivities without giving it another thought. The next morning, she checked her inbox with curious anticipation. Had there been a retraction, a please disregard?

No. Instead, there were still more emails from the same sender. The second, sent 7 hours after the first, bore the subject line Second Notice - Outstanding Final Balance:

Dear Ellis,

Our records show that your final balance of #TOTAL_CHARGES# from your residency at your previous residence remains unpaid.

This is your second notice. Please remit payment in full or contact us to discuss the balance to prevent your account from being sent to collections.

Failure to resolve the balance within the next 15 days may result in your account being referred to a third-party collections agency, which could impact your credit rating.

To make payment or discuss your account, please contact us at 212-555-1212 or accounting@chamapts.com.

Sincerely,

Chamberlin Apartments

The third, sent 6 and a half hours later, threatened Final Notice - Account Will Be Sent to Collections.

Dear Ellis,

Despite previous notices, your final account balance remains unpaid.

This email serves as final notice before your account is forwarded to a third-party collections agency for recovery. Once transferred, we will no longer be able to accept payment directly or discuss the account.

To prevent this, payment of #TOTAL_CHARGES# must be paid in full by #CRITICALDATE#.

Please submit payment immediately. Please contact 212-555-1212 to confirm your payment.

Sincerely,

Chamberlin Apartments

It was almost certainly a mistake, but still rather spooky to someone who'd never been in such a situation. There was solace in the thought that, if they really did try to force Ellis to pay #TOTAL_CHARGES# on the basis of these messages, anyone would find it absurd that all 3 notices were sent mere hours apart, on a holiday no less. The first two had also mentioned 30 and 15 days to pay up, respectively.

Suddenly remembering that she probably wasn't the only recipient of these obvious form emails, Ellis thought to check her local subreddit. Sure enough, there was already a post revealing the range of panic and bewilderment they had wrought among hundreds, if not thousands. Current and more recent former tenants had actually seen #TOTAL_CHARGES# populated with the correct amount of monthly rent. People feared everything from phishing attempts to security breaches.

It wasn't until later that afternoon that Ellis finally received the anticipated mea culpa:

We are reaching out to sincerely apologize for the incorrect collection emails you received. These messages were sent in error due to a system malfunction that released draft messages to our entire database.

Please be assured of the following:
The recent emails do not reflect your actual account status.
If your account does have an outstanding balance, that status has not changed, and you would have already received direct and accurate communication from our office.
Please disregard all three messages sent in error. They do not require any action from you.

We understand that receiving these messages, especially over a holiday, was upsetting and confusing, and we are truly sorry for the stress this caused. The issue has now been fully resolved, and our team has worked with our software provider to stop all queued messages and ensure this does not happen again.

If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to email leasing@chamapts.com. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

All's well that ends well. Ellis thanked the software provider's "system malfunction," whoever or whatever it may've been, that had granted the rest of us a bit of holiday magic to take forward for all time.

In today's Tales from the Interview, our Anonymous submitter relates their experience with an anonymous company:

I had made it through the onsite, but along the way I had picked up some toxic work environment red flags. Since I had been laid off a couple months prior, I figured I wasn't in a position to be picky, so I decided I would still give it my best shot and take the job if I got it, but I'd continue looking for something better.

Then they brought me back onsite a second time for one final interview with 2 senior managers. I went in and they were each holding a printout of my resume. They proceeded to go through everything on it. First they asked why I chose the university I went to, then the same for grad school, which was fine.

Then they got to my first internship. I believe the conversation went something like this:

Manager: "How did you like it?"

Me: "Oh, I loved it!"

Manager: "Were there any negatives?"

Me: "No, not that I can think of."

Manager: "So it was 100% positive?"

Me: "Yep!"

And then they got to my first full-time job, where the same manager repeated the same line of questioning but pushed even harder for me to say something negative, at one point saying "Well, you left for (2nd company on my resume), so there must have been something negative."

I knew better than to bad-mouth a previous employer in an interview, it's like going into a first date and talking smack about your ex. But what do you do when your date relentlessly asks you to talk smack about all your exes and refuses to let the subject turn to anything else? This not only confirmed my suspicions of a toxic work environment, I also figured *they* probably knew it was toxic and were relentlessly testing every candidate to make sure they wouldn't blow the whistle on them.

That was the most excruciatingly awkward interview I've ever had. I didn't get the job, but at that point I didn't care anymore, because I was very, very sure I didn't want to work there in the long term.

I'm glad Subby dodged that bullet, and I hope they're in a better place now.

It seems like this might be some stupid new trend. I recently bombed an interview where I could tell I wasn't giving the person the answer on their checklist, no matter how many times I tried. It was a question about how I handled it when someone opposed what I was doing at work or gave me negative feedback. It felt like they wanted me to admit to more fur-flying drama and fireworks than had ever actually occurred.

I actively ask for and welcome critique on my writing, it makes my work so much better. And if my work is incorrect and needs to be redone, or someone has objections to a project I'm part of, I seek clarification and (A) implement the requested changes, (B) explain why things are as they are and offer alternate suggestions/solutions, (C) seek compromise, depending on the situation. I don't get personal about it.

So, why this trend? Subby believed it was a way to test whether the candidate would someday badmouth the employer. That's certainly feasible, though if that were the goal, you'd think Subby would've passed their ordeal with flying colors. I'm not sure myself, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the nefarious combination of AI and techbro startup culture have something to do with it.

So perhaps I also dodged a bullet: one of the many things I'm grateful for this Thanksgiving.

Feel free to share your ideas, and any and all bullets you have dodged, in the comments.

Our submitter, Gearhead, was embarking on STEM-related research. This required him to pursue funding from a governmental agency that we’ll call the Ministry of Silly Walks. In order to start a grant application and track its status, Gearhead had to create an account on the Ministry website.

The registration page asked for a lot of personal information first. Then Gearhead had to create his own username and password. He used his password generator to create a random string: D\h.|wAi=&:;^t9ZyoO

Upon clicking Save, he received an error.

Your password must be a minimum eight characters long, with no spaces. It must include at least three of the following character types: uppercase letter, lowercase letter, number, special character (e.g., !, $, % , ?).

Perplexed, Gearhead emailed the Ministry’s web support, asking why his registration failed. The reply:

Hello,
The site rejects password generators as hacking attempts. You will need to manually select a password.
Ex. GHott*01

Thank you,

Support

So a long sequence of random characters was an active threat, but a 1990s-era AOL username was just fine. What developer had this insane idea and convinced other people of it? How on earth did they determine what was a "manually selected" string versus a randomly-generated one?

It seems the deciding factor is nothing more than length. If you go to the Ministry’s registration page now, their password guidelines have changed (emphasis theirs):

Must be 8-10 characters long, must contain at least one special character ( ! @ # $ % ^ & * ( ) + = { } | < > \ _ - [ ] / ? ) and no spaces, may contain numbers (0-9), lower and upper case letters (a-z, A-Z). Please note that your password is case sensitive.

Only good can come of forcing tiny passwords.

The more a company or government needs secure practices, the less good they are at secure practices. Is that a law yet? It should be.

Everyone's got workplace woes. The clueless manager; the disruptive coworker; the cube walls that loom ever higher as the years pass, trapping whatever's left of your soul.

But sometimes, Satan really leaves his mark on a joint. I worked Tech Support there. You may remember The C-Level Ticket. I'm Anonymous. This is my story.

Night after night, my dreams are full of me trying and failing at absolutely everything. Catch a bus? I'm already running late and won't make it. Dial a phone number to get help? I can't recall the memorized sequence, and the keypad's busted anyway. Drive outta danger? The car won't start. Run from a threat? My legs are frozen.

Then I wake up in my bed in total darkness, scared out of my skull, and I can't move for real. Not one muscle works. Even if I could move, I'd stay still because I'm convinced the smallest twitch will give me away to the monster lurking nearby, looking to do me in.

The alarm nags me before the sun's even seen fit to show itself. What day is it? Tuesday? An invisible, overwhelming dread pins me in place under the covers. I can't do it. Not again.

The thing is, hunger, thirst, and cold are even more nagging than the alarm. Dead tired, I force myself up anyway to do the whole thing over.

The office joe that morning was so over-brewed as to be sour. I tossed down the last swig in my mug, checking my computer one more time to make sure no Tech Support fires were raging by instant message or email. Then I threw on my coat and hat and quit my cube, taking the stairs to ground level.

I pushed open a heavy fire-escape door and stepped out into the narrow alley between two massive office buildings. Brisk autumn air and the din of urban motor traffic rushed to greet me. The dull gray sky above threatened rain. Leaning against the far brick wall were Toby and Reynaldo, a couple of network admins, hugging themselves as they nursed smoldering cigarettes. They nodded hello.

I tipped my hat in greeting, slipping toward the usual spot, a patch of asphalt I'd all but worn grooves in by that point. I lit my own cigarette and took in a deep, warming draw.

"Make it last another year," Toby spoke in a mocking tone, tapping ash onto the pavement. "I swear, that jerk can squeeze a nickel until Jefferson poops!"

An ambulance siren blared through the alley for a minute. The rig was no doubt racing toward the hospital down the street.

Reynaldo smirked. "You think Morty finally did it?"

Toby smirked as well.

I raised an eyebrow. "Did what?"

"Morty always says he's gonna run out into traffic one of these days so they can take him to the hospital and he won't have to be here," Reynaldo explained.

I frowned at the morbid suggestion. "Hell of a way to catch a break."

"Well, it's not like we can ask for time off," Toby replied bitterly. "They always find some way to rope us back in."

I nodded in sympathy. "You have it worse than we do. But my sleep's still been jacked plenty of times by 3AM escalated nonsense that shoulda been handled by a different part of the globe."

Reynaldo's eyes lit up fiercely. "They have all the same access and training, but it never falls on them! Yeah, been there."

The door swung open again, admitting a young woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. This was Megan, a junior developer and recent hire. I tipped my hat while helping myself to another drag.

She hastened my way, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her handbag. With shaking hands, she fumbled to select a single coffin nail. "I quit these things!" she lamented. After returning the pack to her bag, she rummaged through it fruitlessly. "Dammit, where are those matches?!" She glanced up at me with a pleading expression.

I pulled the lighter from my coat pocket. "You sure?"

She nodded like she hadn't been more sure about anything in her entire life.

I lit it for her. She took a lung-filling pull, then exhaled a huge cloud of smoke.

"Goin' that well, huh?" I asked.

Megan also hugged herself, her expression pained. "Every major player in the industry uses our platform, and I have no idea how it hasn't all come crashing down. There are thousands of bugs in the code base. Thousands! It breaks all the time. Most of the senior devs have no clue what they're doing. And now we're about to lose the only guy who understands the scheduling algorithm, the most important thing!"

"That's tough." I had no idea what else to say. Maybe it was enough that I listened.

Megan glanced up nervously at the brewing storm overhead. "I just know that algorithm's gonna get dumped in my lap."

"The curse of competence." I'd seen it plenty of times.

"Ain't that the truth!" She focused on me again with a look of apology. "How've you been?"

I shrugged. "Same old, same old." I figured a fresh war story might help. "Had to image and set up the tech for this new manager's onboarding. Her face is stuck in this permanent glare. Every time she opens her mouth, it's to bawl someone out."

"Ugh."

"The crazy thing is, the walls of her office are completely covered with crucifixes, and all these posters plastered with flowers and hearts and sap like Choose Kindness." I leaned in and lowered my voice. "You know what I think? I think she’s an ancient Roman whose spite has kept her alive for over two thousand years. Those crosses are a threat!"

That teased a small laugh out of Megan. For a moment, the amusement reached her eyes. Then it was gone, overwhelmed by worry. She took to pacing through the narrow alley.

Back at my cube, I found a new urgent ticket at the top of my case load. Patricia Dracora, a senior project manager, had put in a call claiming her computer had been hacked. Her mouse cursor was moving around and clicking things all on its own.

It was too early in the morning for a case like this. That old dread began sneaking up on me again. The name put me on edge as well. Over the years, our paths had never crossed, but her nickname throughout Tech Support, Dracula, betrayed what everyone else made of her.

"Make like a leaf and blow!"

The boss barked his stern command over my shoulder. I stood and turned from my computer to find him at my cubicle threshold with arms folded, blocking my egress.

I couldn't blow, so I shrugged. "Can't be as bad as The Crucifier."

"Dracula's worse than The Crucifier," the boss replied under his breath in a warning tone. "For your own good, don't keep her waiting!" He tossed a thumb over his shoulder for good measure.

When he finally backed out of the way, I made tracks outta there. A few of my peers made eye contact as I passed, looking wary on my behalf.

The ticket pegged Dracora's office in a subfloor I'd never set foot in before. Descending the stairs, I had too much time to think. Of course I didn't expect a real hacking attempt. Peripheral hardware on the fritz, some software glitch: there'd be a simple explanation. What fresh hell would I have to endure to reach that point? That was what my tired brain couldn't let go of. The stimulants hadn't kicked in yet. With the strength of a kitten, I was stepping into a lion's den. A lion who might make me wish for crucifixion by the time it was all over.

From the stairwell, I entered a dank, deserted corridor. Old florescent lighting fixtures hummed and flickered overhead. That, combined with the overwhelming stench of paint fumes, set the stage for a ripping headache. There were no numbers on the walls to lead me to the right place. They must've taken them down to paint and never replaced them. I inched down worn, stained carpeting, peeking into each open gap I found to either side of me. Nothing but darkness, dust, and cobwebs at first. Eventually, I spotted light blaring from one of the open doors ahead of me. I jogged the rest of the way, eager to see any living being by that point.

The room I'd stumbled onto was almost closet-sized. It contained a desk and chair, a laptop docking station, and a stack of cardboard boxes on the floor. Behind the desk was a woman of short stature, a large purse slung over one shoulder. Her arms were folded as she paced back and forth in the space behind her chair. When I appeared, she stopped and looked to me wide-eyed, maybe just as relieved as I was. "Are you Tech Support?"

"Yes, ma'am." I entered the room. "What's—?"

"I don't know how it happened!" Dracora returned to pacing, both hands making tight fists around the straps of the purse she was apparently too wired and distracted to set down. "They made me move here from the fourth floor. I just brought everything down and set up my computer, and now someone has control of the mouse. Look, look!" She stopped and pointed at the monitor.

I rounded the desk. By the time I got there, whatever she'd seen had vanished. Onscreen, the mouse cursor sat still against a backdrop of open browsers and folders. Nothing unusual.

"It was moving, I swear!" Anguished, Dracora pleaded with me to believe her.

It seemed like she wasn't hostile at all, just stressed out and scared. I could handle that. "I'm sure we can figure this out, ma'am. Lemme have a look here."

I sat down at the desk and tried the wireless mouse first. It didn't work at all to move the cursor.

"The hacker's locked us out!" Dracora returned to pacing behind me.

As I sat there, not touching a thing, the mouse cursor shuttled across the screen like it was possessed.

"There! You see?"

Suddenly, somehow, my brain smashed everything together. "Ma'am, I have an idea. Could you please stand still?"

Dracora stopped.

I swiveled around in the chair to face her. "Ma'am, you said you were moving in down here. What's in your purse right now?"

Her visible confusion deepened. "What?"

"The mouse cursor only moves around when you do," I explained.

Her eyes widened. She dug deeply into her purse. A moment later, she pulled out a second wireless mouse. Then she looked to me like she couldn't believe it. "That's it?!"

"That's it!" I replied.

"Oh, lord!" Dracora replaced the dud sitting on her mousepad with the mouse that was actually connected to her machine, wilting over the desk as she did so. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

I knew the feeling. But the moment of triumph, I gotta admit, felt pretty swell. "Anything else I can help with, ma'am?"

"No, no! I've wasted enough of your time. Thank you so much!"

I had even more questions on the way back upstairs. With this huge, spacious office building, who was forcing Dracora to be in that pit? How had she garnered such a threatening reputation? Why had my experience been so different from everyone else's? I didn't mention it to the boss or my peers. I broke it all down to Megan in the alley a few days later.

"She even put in a good word for me when she closed the ticket," I told her. "The boss says I'm on the fast track for another promotion." I took a drag from my cigarette, full of bemusement. "I'm already as senior as it gets. The only way up from here is management." I shook my head. "That ain't my thing. Look how well it's gone for Dracora."

Megan lowered her gaze, eyes narrowed. "You said it yourself: the only reward for good work is more work."

And then they buried you ... in a basement, or a box.

I remembered being at the start of my career, like Megan. I remembered feeling horrified by all the decades standing between me and the day when I wouldn't or couldn't ever work again. A couple decades in, some part of me that I'd repressed had resurfaced. What the hell is this? What have I been doing?

Stop caring, a different part replied. Just stop caring. Take things day by day, case by case.

I'd obeyed for so long. Where had it gotten me?

Under my breath, I risked airing my wildest wish for the future. "Someday, I wanna break outta this joint."

Megan blinked up at me. I had her attention. "How?"

"I dunno," I admitted. "I gotta figure it out ... before I go nuts."

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Chops was a developer for Initrode. Early on a Monday, they were summoned to their manager Gary's office before the caffeine had even hit their brain.

Gary glowered up from his office chair as Chops entered. This wasn't looking good. "We need to talk about the latest commit for Taskmaster."

Taskmaster was a large application that'd been around for decades, far longer than Chops had been an employee. Thousands of internal and external customers relied upon it. Refinements over time had led to remarkable stability, its typical uptime now measured in years. However, just last week, their local installation had unexpectedly suffered a significant crash. Chops had been assigned to troubleshooting and repair.

"What's wrong?" Chops asked.

"Your latest commit decreased the number of unit tests!" Gary replied as if Chops had slashed the tires on his BMW.

Within Taskmaster, some objects that were periodically generated were given a unique ID from a pool. The pool was of limited size and required scanning to find a spare ID. Each time a value was needed, a search began where the last search ended. IDs returned to the pool as objects were destroyed would only be reused when the search wrapped back around to the start.

Chops had discovered a bug in the wrap-around logic that would inevitably produce a crash if Taskmaster ran long enough. They also found that if the number of objects created exceeded the size of the pool, this would trigger an infinite loop.

Rather than attempt to patch any of this, Chops had nuked the whole thing and replaced it with code that assigned each object a universally unique identifier (UUID) from a trusted library UUID generator within its constructor. Gone was the bad code, along with its associated unit tests.

Knowing they would probably only get in a handful of words, Chops wonderered how on earth to explain all this in a way that would appease their manager. "Well—"

"That number must NEVER go down!" Gary snapped.

"But—"

"This is non-negotiable! Roll it back and come up with something better!"

And so Chops had no choice but to remove their solution, put all the janky code back in place, and patch over it with kludge. Every comment left to future engineers contained a tone of apology.

Taskmaster became less stable. Time and expensive developer hours were wasted. Risk to internal and external customers increased. But Gary could rest assured, knowing that his favored metric never faltered on his watch.

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Ellis knew she needed a walk after she hurried off of Zoom at the end of the meeting to avoid sobbing in front of the group.

She'd just been attending a free online seminar regarding safe job hunting on the Internet. Having been searching since the end of January, Ellis had already picked up plenty of first-hand experience with the modern job market, one rejection at a time. She thought she'd attend the seminar just to see if there were any additional things she wasn't aware of. The seminar had gone well, good information presented in a clear and engaging way. But by the end of it, Ellis was feeling bleak. Goodness gracious, she'd already been slogging through months of this. Hundreds of job applications with nothing to show for it. All of the scams out there, all of the bad actors preying on people desperate for their and their loved ones' survival!

Ellis' childhood had been plagued with anxiety and depression. It was only as an adult that she'd learned any tricks for coping with them. These tricks had helped her avoid spiraling into full-on depression for the past several years. One such trick was to stop and notice whenever those first feelings hit. Recognize them, feel them, and then respond constructively.

First, a walk. Going out where there were trees and sunshine: Ellis considered this "garbage collection" for her brain. So she stepped out the front door and started down a tree-lined path near her house, holding on to that bleak feeling. She was well aware that if she didn't address it, it would take root and grow into hopelessness, self-loathing, fear of the future. It would paralyze her, leave her curled up on the couch doing nothing. And it would all happen without any words issuing from her inner voice. That was the most insidious thing. It happened way down deep in a place where there were no words at all.

Once she returned home, Ellis forced herself to sit down with a notebook and pencil and think very hard about what was bothering her. She wrote down each sentiment:

This was the first step of a reframing technique she'd just read about in the book Right Kind of Wrong by Amy Edmonson. With the words out, it was possible to look at each statement and determine whether it was rational or irrational, constructive or harmful. Each statement could be replaced with something better.

Ellis proceeded step by step through the list.

• Yes, this will end. Everything ends.
• There's nothing wrong with me. Most businesses are swamped with applications. There's a good chance mine aren't even being looked at before they're being auto-rejected. Remember the growth mindset you learned from Carol Dweck. Each application and interview is giving me experience and making me a better candidate.
• This job market is a novel context that changes every day. That means failure is not only inevitable, it's the only way forward.

Ellis realized that her job hunt was very much like a search algorithm trying to find a path through a maze. When the algorithm encountered a dead end, did it deserve blame? Was it an occasion for shame, embarrassment, and despair? Of course not. Simply backtrack and keep going with the knowledge gained.

Yes, there was truth to the fact that this was the toughest job market Ellis had ever experienced. Therefore, taking a note from Viktor Frankl, she spent a moment reimagining the struggle in a way that made it meaningful to her. Ellis began viewing her job hunt in this dangerous market, her gradual accumulation of survival information, as an act of resistance against it. She now hoped to write all about her experience once she was on the other side, in case her advice might help even one other person in her situation save time and frustration.

While unemployed, she also had the opportunity to employ the search algorithm against entirely new mazes. Could Ellis expand her freelance writing into a sustainable gig, for instance? That would mean exploring all the different ways to be a freelance writer, something Ellis was now curious and excited to explore.

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Everyone's got workplace woes. The clueless manager; the disruptive coworker; the cube walls that loom ever higher as the years pass, trapping whatever's left of your soul.

But sometimes, Satan really leaves his mark on a joint. I worked Tech Support there. This is my story. Who am I? Just call me Anonymous.

It starts at the top. A call came in from Lawrence Gibbs, the CEO himself, telling us that a conference room printer was, quote, "leaking." He didn't explain it, he just hung up. The boss ordered me out immediately, told me to step on it. I ignored the elevator, racing up the staircase floor after floor until I reached the dizzying summit of C-Town.

There's less oxygen up there, I'm sure of it. My lungs ached and my head spun as I struggled to catch my breath. The fancy tile and high ceilings made a workaday schmuck like me feel daunted, unwelcome. All the same, I gathered myself and pushed on, if only to learn what on earth "leaking" meant in relation to a printer.

I followed the signs on the wall to the specified conference room. In there, the thermostat had been kicked down into the negatives. The cold cut through every layer of mandated business attire, straight to bone. The scene was thick with milling bystanders who hugged themselves and traded the occasional nervous glance. Gibbs was nowhere to be found.

Remembering my duty, I summoned my nerve. "Tech Support. Where's the printer?" I asked.

Several pointing fingers showed me the way. The large printer/scanner was situated against the far wall, flanking an even more enormous conference table. Upon rounding the table, I was greeted with a grim sight: dozens of sheets of paper strewn about the floor like blood spatter. Everyone was keeping their distance; no one paid me any mind as I knelt to gather the pages. There were 30 in all. Each one was blank on one side, and sported some kind of large, blotchy ring on the other. Lord knew I drank enough java to recognize a coffee mug stain when I saw one, but these weren't actual stains. They were printouts of stains.

The printer was plugged in. No sign of foul play. As I knelt there, unseen and unheeded, I clutched the ruined papers to my chest. Someone had wasted a tree and a good bit of toner, and for what? How'd it go down? Surely Gibbs knew more than he'd let on. The thought of seeking him out, demanding answers, set my heart to pounding. It was no good, I knew. He'd play coy all day and hand me my pink slip if I pushed too hard. As much as I wanted the truth, I had a stack of unpaid bills at home almost as thick as the one in my arms. I had to come up with something else.

There had to be witnesses among the bystanders. I stood up and glanced among them, seeking out any who would return eye contact. There: a woman who looked every bit as polished as everyone else. But for once, I got the feeling that what lay beneath the facade wasn't rotten.

With my eyes, I pleaded for answers.

Not here, her gaze pleaded back.

I was getting somewhere, I just had to arrange for some privacy. I hurried around the table again and weaved through bystanders toward the exit, hoping to beat it out of that icebox unnoticed. When I reached the threshold, I spotted Gibbs charging up the corridor, smoldering with entitlement. "Where the hell is Tech Support?!"

I froze a good distance away from the oncoming executive, whose voice I recognized from a thousand corporate presentations. Instead of putting me to sleep this time, it jolted down my spine like lightning. I had to think fast, or I was gonna lose my lead, if not my life.

"I'm right here, sir!" I said. "Be right back! I, uh, just need to find a folder for these papers."

"I've got one in my office."

A woman's voice issued calmly only a few feet behind me. I spun around, and it was her, all right, her demeanor as cool as our surroundings. She nodded my way. "Follow me."

My spirits soared. At that moment, I would've followed her into hell. Turning around, I had the pleasure of seeing Gibbs stop short with a glare of contempt. Then he waved us out of his sight.

Once we were out in the corridor, she took the lead, guiding me through the halls as I marveled at my luck. Eventually, she used her key card on one of the massive oak doors, and in we went.

You could've fit my entire apartment into that office. The place was spotless. Mini-fridge, espresso machine, even couches: none of it looked used. There were a couple of cardboard boxes piled up near her desk, which sat in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling window admitting ample sunlight.

She motioned toward one of the couches, inviting me to sit. I shook my head in reply. I was dying for a cigarette by that point, but I didn't dare light up within this sanctuary. Not sure what to expect next, I played it cautious, hovering close to the exit. "Thanks for the help back there, ma'am."

"Don't mention it." She walked back to her desk, opened up a drawer, and pulled out a brand-new manila folder. Then she returned to conversational distance and proffered it my way. "You're from Tech Support?"

There was pure curiosity in her voice, no disparagement, which was encouraging. I accepted the folder and stuffed the ruined pages inside. "That's right, ma'am."

She shook her head. "Please call me Leila. I started a few weeks ago. I'm the new head of HR."

Human Resources. That acronym, which usually put me on edge, somehow failed to raise my hackles. I'd have to keep vigilant, of course, but so far she seemed surprisingly OK. "Welcome aboard, Leila. I wish we were meeting in better circumstances." Duty beckoned. I hefted the folder. "Printers don't just leak."

"No." Leila glanced askance, grave.

"Tell me what you saw."

"Well ..." She shrugged helplessly. "Whenever Mr. Gibbs gets excited during a meeting, he tends to lean against the printer and rest his coffee mug on top of it. Today, he must've hit the Scan button with his elbow. I saw the scanner go off. It was so bright ..." She trailed off with a pained glance downward.

"I know this is hard," I told her when the silence stretched too long. "Please, continue."

Leila summoned her mettle. "After he leaned on the controls, those pages spilled out of the printer. And then ... then somehow, I have no idea, I swear! Somehow, all those pages were also emailed to me, Mr. Gibbs' assistant, and the entire board of directors!"

The shock hit me first. My eyes went wide and my jaw fell. But then I reminded myself, I'd seen just as crazy and worse as the result of a cat jumping on a keyboard. A feline doesn't know any better. A top-level executive, on the other hand, should know better.

"Sounds to me like the printer's just fine," I spoke with conviction. "What we have here is a CEO who thinks it's OK to treat an expensive piece of office equipment like his own personal fainting couch."

"It's terrible!" Leila's gaze burned with purpose. "I promise, I'll do everything I possibly can to make sure something like this never happens again!"

I smiled a gallows smile. "Not sure what anyone can do to fix this joint, but the offer's appreciated. Thanks again for your help."

Now that I'd seen this glimpse of better things, I selfishly wanted to linger. But it was high time I got outta there. I didn't wanna make her late for some meeting or waste her time. I backed up toward the door on feet that were reluctant to move.

Leila watched me with a look of concern. "Mr. Gibbs was the one who called Tech Support. I can't close your ticket for you; you'll have to get him to do it. What are you going to do?"

She cared. That made leaving even harder. "I dunno yet. I'll think of something."

I turned around, opened the massive door, and put myself on the other side of it in a hurry, using wall signs to backtrack to the conference room. Would our paths ever cross again? Unlikely. Someone like her was sure to get fired, or quit out of frustration, or get corrupted over time.

It was too painful to think about, so I forced myself to focus on the folder of wasted pages in my arms instead. It felt like a mile-long rap sheet. I was dealing with an alleged leader who went so far as to blame the material world around him rather than accept personal responsibility. I'd have to appeal to one or more of the things he actually cared about: himself, his bottom line, his sense of power.

By the time I returned to the conference room to face the CEO, I knew what to tell him. "You're right, sir, there's something very wrong with this printer. We're gonna take it out here and give it a thorough work-up."

That was how I was able to get the printer out of that conference room for good. Once it underwent "inspection" and "testing," it received a new home in a previously unused closet. Whenever Gibbs got to jawing in future meetings, all he could do was lean against the wall. Ticket closed.

Gibbs remained at the top, doing accursed things that trickled down to the roots of his accursed company. But at least from then on, every onboarding slideshow included a photo of one of the coffee ring printouts, with the title Respect the Equipment.

Thanks, Leila. I can live with that.

Once upon a time, there was a bank whose business relied on a mainframe. As the decades passed and the 21st century dawned, the bank's bigwigs realized they had to upgrade their frontline systems to applications built in Java and .NET, but—for myriad reasons that boiled down to cost, fear, and stubbornness—they didn't want to migrate away from the mainframe entirely. They also didn't want the new frontline systems to talk directly to the mainframe or vice-versa. So they tasked old-timer Edgar with writing some middleware. Edgar's brainchild was a Windows service that took care of receiving frontline requests, passing them to the mainframe, and sending the responses back.

Edgar's middleware worked well, so well that it was largely forgotten about. It outlasted Edgar himself, who, after another solid decade of service, moved on to another company.

A few years later, our submitter John F. joined the bank's C# team. By this point, the poor middleware seemed to be showing its age. A strange problem had arisen: between 8:00AM and 5:00PM, every 45 minutes or so, it would lock up and have to be restarted. Outside of those hours, there was no issue. The problem was mitigated by automatic restarts, but it continued to inflict pain and aggravation upon internal users and external customers. A true solution had to be found.

Unfortunately, Edgar was long gone. The new "owner" of the middleware was an infrastructure team containing zero developers. Had Edgar left them any documentation? No. Source code? Sort of. Edgar had given a copy of the code to his friend Bob prior to leaving. Unfortunately, Bob's copy was a few point releases behind the version of middleware running in production. It was also in C, and there were no C developers to be found anywhere in the company.

And so, the bank's bigwigs cobbled together a diverse team of experts. There were operating system people, network people, and software people ... including the new guy, John. Poor John had the unenviable task of sifting through Edgar's source code. Just as the C# key sits right next to the C key on a piano, reasoned the bigwigs, C# couldn't be that different from C.

John toiled in an unfamiliar language with no build server or test environment to aid him. It should be no great surprise that he got nowhere. A senior coworker suggested that he check what Windows' Process Monitor registered when the middleware was running. John allowed a full day to pass, then looked at the results: it was now clear that the middleware was constantly creating and destroying threads. John wrote a Python script to analyze the threads, and found that most of them lived for only seconds. However, every 5 minutes, a thread was created but never destroyed.

This only happened during the hours of 8:00AM to 5:00PM.

At the next cross-functional team meeting behind closed doors, John finally had something of substance to report to the large group seated around the conference room table. There was still a huge mystery to solve: where were these middleware-killing threads coming from?

"Wait a minute! Wasn't Frank doing something like that?" one of the other team members piped up.

"Frank!" A department manager with no technical expertise, who insisted on attending every meeting regardless, darted up straight in his chair. For once, he wasn't haranguing them for their lack of progress. He resembled a wolf who'd sniffed blood in the air. "You mean Frank from Accounting?!"

This was the corporate equivalent of an arrest warrant. Frank from Accounting was duly called forth.

"That's my program." Frank stood before the table, laid back and blithe despite the obvious frayed nerves of several individuals within the room. "It queries the middleware every 5 minutes."

They were finally getting somewhere. Galvanized, John's heart pounded. "How?" he asked.

"Well, it could be that the middleware is down, so first, my program opens a connection just to make sure it's working," Frank explained. "If that works, it opens another connection and sends the query."

John's confusion mirrored the multiple frowns that filled the room. He forced himself to carefully parse what he'd just heard. "What happens to the first connection?"

"What do you mean?" Frank asked.

"You said your program opens two connections. What do you do with the first one?"

"Oh! I just use that one to test whether the middleware is up."

"You don't need to do that!" one of the networking experts snarled. "For Pete's sake, take that out of your code! Don't you realize you're tanking this thing for everyone else?"

Frank's expression made clear that he was entirely oblivious to the chaos wrought by his program. Somehow, he survived the collective venting of frustration that followed within that conference room. After one small update to Frank's program, the middleware stabilized—for the time being. And while Frank became a scapegoat and villain to some, he was a hero to many, many more. After all, he single-handedly convinced the bank's bigwigs that the status quo was too precarious. They began to plan out a full migration away from mainframe, a move that would free them from their dependence upon aging, orphaned middleware.

Now that the mystery had been solved, John knew where to look in Edgar's source code. The thread pool had a limit of 10, and every thread began by waiting for input. The middleware could handle bad input well enough, but it hadn't been written to handle the case of no input at all.

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Our anonymous submitter, whom we'll call Craig, worked for GlobalCon. GlobalCon relied on an offshore team on the other side of the world for adding/removing users from the system, support calls, ticket tracking, and other client services. One day at work, an urgent escalated ticket from Martin, the offshore support team lead, fell into Craig's queue. Seated before his cubicle workstation, Craig opened the ticket right away:

The new GlobalCon support website is not working. Appears to have been taken over by ChatGPT. The entire support team is blocked by this.

Instead of feeling any sense of urgency, Craig snorted out loud from perverse amusement.

"What was that now?" The voice of Nellie, his coworker, wafted over the cubicle wall that separated them.

"Urgent ticket from the offshore team," Craig replied.

"What is it this time?" Nellie couldn't suppress her glee.

"They're dead in the water because the new support page was, quote, taken over by ChatGPT."

Nellie laughed out loud.

"Hey! I know humor is important to surviving this job." A level, more mature voice piped up behind Craig from the cube across from his. It belonged to Dana, his manager. "But it really is urgent if they're all blocked. Do your best to help, escalate to me if you get stuck."

"OK, thanks. I got this," Craig assured her.

He was already 99.999% certain that no part of their web domain had gone down or been conquered by a belligerent AI, or else he would've heard of it by now. To make sure, Craig opened support.globalcon.com in a browser tab: sure enough, it worked. Martin had supplied no further detail, no logs or screenshots or videos, and no steps to reproduce, which was sadly typical of most of these escalations. At a loss, Craig took a screenshot of the webpage, opened the ticket, and posted the following: Everything's fine on this end. If it's still not working for you, let's do a screenshare.

Granted, a screensharing session was less than ideal given the 12-hour time difference. Craig hoped that whatever nefarious shenanigans ChatGPT had allegedly committed were resolved by now.

The next day, Craig received an update. Still not working. The entire team is still blocked. We're too busy to do a screenshare, please resolve ASAP.

Craig checked the website again with both laptop and phone. He had other people visit the website for him, trying different operating systems and web browsers. Every combination worked. Two things mystified him: how was the entire offshore team having this issue, and how were they "too busy" for anything if they were all dead in the water? At a loss, Craig attached an updated screenshot to the ticket and typed out the best CYA response he could muster. The new support website is up and has never experienced any issues. With no further proof or steps to reproduce this, I don't know what to tell you. I think a screensharing session would be the best thing at this point.

The next day, Martin parroted his last message almost word for word, except this time he assented to a screensharing session, suggesting the next morning for himself.

It was deep into the evening when Craig set up his work laptop on his kitchen counter and started a call and session for Martin to join. "OK. Can you show me what you guys are trying to do?"

To his surprise, he watched Martin open up Microsoft Teams first thing. From there, Martin accessed a chat to the entire offshore support team from the CPO of GlobalCon. The message proudly introduced the new support website and outlined the steps for accessing it. One of those steps was to visit support.globalcon.com.

The web address was rendered as blue outlined text, a hyperlink. Craig observed Martin clicking the link. A web browser opened up. Lo and behold, the page that finally appeared was www.chatgpt.com.

Craig blinked with surprise. "Hang on! I'm gonna take over for a second."

Upon taking control of the session, Craig switched back to Teams and accessed the link's details. The link text was correct, but the link destination was ChatGPT. It seemed like a copy/paste error that the CPO had tried to fix, not realizing that they'd needed to do more than simply update the link text.

"This looks like a bad link," Craig said. "It got sent to your entire team. And all of you have been trying to access the support site with this link?"

"Correct," Martin replied.

Craig was glad he couldn't be seen frowning and shaking his head. "Lemme show you what I've been doing. Then you can show everyone else, OK?"

After surrendering control of the session, Craig patiently walked Martin through the steps of opening a web browser, typing support.globalcon.com into the header, and hitting Return. The site opened without any issue. From there, Craig taught Martin how to create a bookmark for it.

"Just click on that from now on, and it'll always take you to the right place," Craig said. "In the future, before you click on any hyperlink, make sure you hover your mouse over it to see where it actually goes. Links can be labeled one thing when they actually take you somewhere else. That's how phishing works."

"Oh," Martin said. "Thanks!"

The call ended on a positive note, but left Craig marveling at the irony of lecturing the tech support lead on Internet 101 in the dead of night.