The shop fell silent. Then, a young man’s voice, tinny and crackling, filled the room: “Hey, Dadi. I know you hate when I stay out late. But I got the job. Don't worry so much, okay? I love you.”

“Fifty rupees,” he said. “For the cable.”

The software whirred. A folder popped open on his desktop: . Inside were raw files: .bin, .img, .dat.