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Maya had been a viewer first. A lonely one. She’d found herself addicted to Channel 89: an elderly beekeeper in Vermont named Old George. She’d watched him make breakfast, tend his hives, and die—slowly, over six weeks, of pancreatic cancer. She was one of 12,000 people watching when his hand slipped off the arm of his chair for the last time. The chat had exploded with crying emojis and “F” in the chat. Maya had sobbed for an hour.

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She did not end the stream. She took another sip of her latte. And somewhere in the city, a man with a string of numbers for a name smiled, grabbed his coat, and started walking. The chat went wild. Maya had been a viewer first

“You want real life?” she whispered. “Okay. Let’s see what happens next.” She’d watched him make breakfast, tend his hives,

The lens cap clicked off with a sound too loud for the pre-dawn quiet. Maya adjusted the tiny, button-sized camera clipped to the collar of her jacket. It was the third generation of “Lifecam” – a device no larger than a shirt button, capable of streaming 8K video directly to her secure cloud. The prompt on her smart glasses blinked green: LIVE. 127 viewers.

Maya’s blood turned to ice water. She stared at the message. Her hand, moving on its own, went to the black dot behind her ear. She could end the stream. She could hit the kill switch in her pocket. She could call the police right now, and this would be over.