The phone on the screen began to vibrate. Not the anodyne buzz-buzz-buzz of a modern haptic engine. This was the old, aggressive BRRRZZT-BRRRZZT of a rotating eccentric mass. On the screen, the caller ID read:

With a trembling hand, he moved the mouse cursor over the green "Answer" button. His finger hovered over the click.

He did none of that.

The emulator window snapped open. A perfect, digital ghost of a Motorola RAZR V3x materialized on his screen. The deep magenta chassis, the impossibly thin hinge, the laser-etched keyboard that felt (via his haptic gloves) like cold, expensive glass.

His heart was a kick drum. The Foundation scrubbed all personal data from archived drives. This wasn't possible.