One small lamp pinpoints light directly onto the keyboard, the monitor gives out an eerie glow – the rest of the room is in darkness. The only sound, tip tap tip tap as the keys are hit repeatedly, the index and middle fingers on each hand as accurate as any touch typist. His head does not move; he is fixed in concentration on the screen in front of him. He scans the list, the pictures, the friends of friends, the blank identities. Where is she? She must be here. He scrolls further down, clicking randomly on pictures, on information panels, on walls of chit chat. Nice hair, pretty eyes, white teeth, big breasts, likes movies, cycling, and surfing – so much information. These women are a distraction. They are not her. He watches her every morning at the bus stop below his bedroom window. Her friend called out her name once. He takes a sip of Red Bull and types again, tries a different spelling. His thumb glides over the mouse pad once again, searching for her. There are eight hundred million users – she must be here somewhere. He must keep looking.