A young newspaper reporter named Edwin Barker possessed the uncommon habit of believing that facts were more valuable than opinions. It was an unfortunate belief for a man entering journalism in modern times, for facts require labor, as opinions come the wagonload from any street corner without expense.

Edwin nevertheless clung to his profession with the devotion of a farmer tending a field that everybody else insisted had already been sold for a shopping center. He worked for the Morning Clarion, a newspaper that had once terrified crooked politicians, dishonest merchants, and lazy sheriffs.

By the time Edwin arrived, it chiefly terrified the accounting department. Every week another meeting was called to discuss declining subscriptions, disappearing advertisers, and the mysterious tendency of readers to spend three hours staring into their telephones while claiming they had no time to read the news.

The editor, Horace Tibbins, had survived forty years in newspapers through equal portions of stubbornness, indigestion, and coffee. He regarded every innovation with suspicion until it proved it made money, then he embraced it with such enthusiasm that he forgot ever opposing it in the first place.

One rainy Monday morning, his voice thundered across the newsroom.

“Barker! My office!”

Every reporter instinctively stopped typing. Edwin removed his glasses, folded them carefully, and muttered to the police reporter beside him.

“I’ve either won an award or committed an offense.”

His friend grinned.

“In this business those are usually the same thing.”

Edwin entered the editor’s office and found Tibbins standing beside the window with the solemn expression usually reserved for declaring wars or raising subscription prices.

“Sit down, Barker,” the editor said.

Edwin complied.

“I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

“I rather enjoy the old one.”

“I know.”

“I’ve finally learned the names of every city council member.”

“Which is precisely why I’m moving you.”

Edwin frowned.

“To where?”

The editor smiled with the confidence of a man about to ruin another fellow’s week.

“You’re our new social media columnist.”

For several seconds, Edwin stared.

“Our…what?”

“Our social media columnist.”

“I don’t know anything about social media.”

“You’ll learn.”

“I’ve never even had a Facebook account.”

“Then you’ll open one.”

“I’ve always heard social media rots the brain.”

“So did television,” the editor replied. “And radio before that. Before radio they said newspapers ruined civilization.”

“Did they?”

“They always say something ruins civilization. Civilization has proven remarkably difficult to ruin.”

Edwin leaned forward desperately.

“Couldn’t I stay on local government? Half those fellows are already comedians.”

“No.”

“I’ll cover agriculture.”

“No.”

“Obituaries?”

“No.”

“I’ll report from the county dump.”

“We’re sending you somewhere worse.”

“TikTok.”

Edwin blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“TikTok.”

“I thought that was the sound a cheap clock made.”

The editor slid a folder across the desk.

“Our readers want someone who understands social media.”

“I don’t.”

“Precisely why I trust you. Everybody else in this building already thinks they do.”

A wise man knows the difference between an argument he may win and one that merely postpones defeat. Edwin recognized he had encountered the second variety.

He returned to his desk carrying the folder as though it contained a death sentence. That afternoon he created accounts on every fashionable platform he could find.

Some demanded photographs, others demanded biographies, while still others requested permission to know his location, his hobbies, his favorite foods, and possibly the name of his childhood barber. Edwin denied every request that sounded like an attempted burglary.

Then he opened TikTok.

The first video featured a person dancing while explaining tax law. The second showcased a grandmother racing motorcycles. The third provided cooking tips from a man dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte. The fourth video claimed that raccoons were secretly plotting against homeowners. Finally, the fifth demonstrated seventeen methods for folding bath towels into decorative swans.

Edwin lowered the phone and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve learned nothing,” he muttered. “Yet I somehow feel informed.”

He looked again. A goat was screaming at a thunderstorm. He watched until the storm ended.

His first column appeared two days later beneath the headline, “The Strange Kingdom Hidden Inside Your Telephone.” It described influencers, reaction videos, cooking channels, dancing veterinarians, historians dressed as pirates, and a gentleman who spent every afternoon reviewing gas station sandwiches as though they were royal banquets.

The readers adored it. Letters poured into the newspaper.

“Finally someone explains this nonsense!”

“I laughed until coffee came out my nose.”

“My grandchildren do every one of these ridiculous things.”

The editor slapped Edwin on the back.

“Excellent work.”

“It was exhausting.”

“Good. Keep exhausting yourself.”

By the end of the first week, Edwin had written five columns, each requiring what the editor called research. Research, unfortunately, consisted of watching several hundred videos every day.

Edwin despised every minute of it.

“I hate this place,” he announced one afternoon while staring into his phone.

The sports editor looked over.

“Then close the app.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m working.”

The sports editor shrugged.

“Funny. Every addict says the same thing.”

Edwin ignored him.

Without realizing it, the young reporter began adopting little habits from his favorite creators. He pointed dramatically before making ordinary statements.

He paused for effect after every sentence. Whenever someone asked him a question, he tilted his head thoughtfully and answered, “Okay…so here’s the thing.”

One afternoon the weather reporter asked, “Think it’ll rain tomorrow?”

Edwin looked into the middle distance.

“Okay…so here’s the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The weather.”

“Yes?”

“It is giving…rain.”

The newsroom fell silent.

Finally, someone whispered, “What in blazes does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Edwin admitted. “But everybody says it.”

His vocabulary deteriorated with astonishing speed. Sandwiches became “iconic.” Flat tires were “literally unbelievable.” The editor’s coffee was “criminally underrated.”

Even his laugh changed. He no longer laughed naturally.

Instead, he produced the exaggerated burst of amusement fashionable among online personalities, sounding like a donkey that had unexpectedly discovered philosophy. His fiancée, Clara, noticed immediately.

She had fallen in love with Edwin because he was intelligent without showing off, funny without trying, and capable of discussing literature over supper without quoting himself. Now she found him staring at invisible cameras, eating mashed potatoes.

One evening she served roast chicken.

Edwin stopped her.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I need a better angle.”

“For what?”

“The reveal.”

Clara looked around the dining room.

“The reveal to whom?”

“My audience.”

“There isn’t an audience.”

“There could be.”

He rearranged the plate three times before photographing it.

Then he lifted a forkful toward his mouth and suddenly froze.

“What now?” Clara asked.

“I forgot the reaction shot.”

“There is no reaction shot.”

“There should be.”

He finally tasted the chicken. Instantly, his eyes grew wide enough to alarm an optometrist.

“Oh…”

He paused dramatically.

“…my…”

Another pause.

“…GOODNESS!”

Clara stared.

“It’s roasted chicken.”

He pointed enthusiastically at the plate.

“This changes everything!”

“No,” she replied calmly. “It changes into leftovers.”

He continued chewing while nodding thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t expecting those flavors.”

“You’ve eaten my chicken every Sunday for three years.”

“Yes, but this bite has a narrative.”

“It has gravy.”

She watched him finish dinner, while periodically glancing toward an imaginary audience that existed nowhere except inside his imagination.

The following Saturday they met at their favorite café.

Edwin spent ten minutes filming a hamburger.

“It needs natural light,” he explained.

“It needs mustard,” Clara answered.

“People appreciate presentation.”

“People appreciate lunch before it gets cold.”

When the waitress accidentally walked between the camera and the plate, Edwin sighed with theatrical despair.

“Oh no!”

“What happened?” Clara asked.

“The shot is ruined.”

“So order another sandwich.”

“It won’t be authentic.”

Clara leaned across the table, reached into his hands, and calmly removed his phone.

Edwin gasped.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving our lunch.”

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“I need it.”

“You need to eat.”

“It’s for work.”

“It’s for obsession.”

“My followers—”

“You have two hundred followers.”

“I’ll have thousands.”

She placed the phone inside her purse.

“You’ll get this back when you stop acting like a stranger.”

Edwin frowned.

“I’m being myself.”

“No,” she said quietly. “You’re being everybody except yourself.”

Had Edwin been blessed with ordinary common sense instead of extraordinary confidence, he would have listened. Instead, he marched home and ordered a second phone.

There have been many expensive mistakes throughout history. Kings have invaded Russia in winter.

Investors have purchased bridges they did not own. Edwin Barker bought another smartphone because his fiancée confiscated the first.

The consequences were equally predictable. Months passed.

The more TikTok Edwin watched, the more TikTok seemed to watch him back. It knew when he laughed, when he frowned, when he lingered over cooking videos, and when he watched stories of broken romances.

It learned his habits with the patient devotion of a pickpocket studying a wealthy tourist. Clara grew increasingly unhappy.

One evening she sat across from him in silence while he scrolled through another endless stream of videos.

“Edwin.”

He never looked up.

“Mm-hmm?”

“I’m talking to you.”

“So am I.”

“No.”

He finally raised his eyes.

“What?”

“I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“No,” she whispered. “You’re in that phone.”

He smiled impatiently.

“You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly enough.”

She reached into her purse and removed a tiny velvet box. Inside rested her engagement ring.

“I loved the man who covered school board meetings and county fairs,” she said softly. “I don’t know the fellow who critiques sandwiches like Shakespeare reviewing ham.”

He stared at the ring.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You’d leave me over TikTok?”

She shook her head.

“No, Edwin. I’m leaving because you already left.”

She placed the ring upon the table and quietly walked away. The saddest part was that Edwin waited almost a full minute before chasing after her.

Then his phone vibrated. He checked the notification first.

Heartbreak is a peculiar thing. Some men seek comfort among family.

Others seek it in work. Edwin sought it in an endless stream of strangers announcing that their own relationships had failed.

“My boyfriend left.”

“My girlfriend cheated.”

“My fiancé didn’t appreciate me.”

“My healing journey begins today.”

Night after night, he watched them.

He commented beneath their videos.

“You deserve better.”

“Stay strong.”

“We’re all here for you.”

He comforted people living thousands of miles away while never speaking to the neighbors across the hall. The irony escaped him completely.

His friends stopped inviting him out for drinks. He always declined anyway.

“I’m researching,” he would explain.

Eventually they quit asking.

The newsroom changed as well. Reporters still respected him, but conversation became impossible.

Every discussion somehow ended with Edwin saying, “Actually, according to TikTok…”

The sports editor finally interrupted.

“I don’t care what TikTok says.”

“It has experts.”

“So does the encyclopedia.”

“It doesn’t dance.”

“No,” replied the sports editor. “That’s why I don’t trust it.”

Despite everything, Edwin’s columns became remarkable.

He anticipated trends before they reached the town. He explained internet slang to bewildered grandparents. He translated online absurdity into newspaper English with astonishing skill.

Subscriptions increased. Advertising flourished.

The editor summoned him again.

“Barker.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve earned a raise.”

“I have?”

“Our online readership has doubled.”

Edwin smiled faintly.

“Thank you.”

The editor examined him.

“When was your last day off?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When was the last time you slept eight hours?”

“I don’t remember that either.”

“You should take a vacation.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The algorithm changes every hour.”

The editor nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose success demands sacrifice.”

Neither man paused to consider what had already been sacrificed.

As the months became years, Edwin’s apartment slowly transformed into something resembling a television studio.

Books disappeared from the shelves, replaced by lighting equipment and camera tripods. The dining table became a filming station, and the living room held more charging cables than furniture.

One rainy evening, after finishing another brilliantly successful column, Edwin noticed something unusual.

The apartment was silent. There was no laughter, conversation, or Clara, and no friends dropping by. There was only the soft hum of electronics waiting to be used again.

For the first time in many months, loneliness settled over him. He mistook it for boredom.

“I know what I need,” he said aloud. “I’ll start making videos that showcase me.”

His first video began with a broad smile.

“Okay, everybody…so here’s the thing.”

Thousands watched. Hundreds followed. The numbers climbed faster than newspaper subscriptions ever had.

People loved his exaggerated expressions. They admired his dramatic pauses. They praised his humor.

No one realized every joke belonged to somebody else, and neither did Edwin. He copied voices, facial expressions, opinions, gestures, and catchphrases until the original man beneath them became difficult even for himself to recognize.

One afternoon his old friend Simmons encountered him outside the newspaper office.

“Edwin!”

“Oh…hello.”

“Haven’t seen you in months.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Content.”

“I asked what you’ve been doing.”

“I told you.”

Simmons studied him for a long moment.

“You used to tell stories.”

“I still do.”

“No,” Simmons replied sadly. “Now you chase attention.”

Edwin laughed with the loud, rehearsed laugh he had borrowed from a creator whose name he no longer remembered.

Simmons shook his head.

“I miss the fellow who laughed because something was funny.”

As his old friend walked away, Edwin instinctively reached for his phone. A notification had appeared.

Someone had written: “You’re my favorite creator!”

Edwin smiled. He forgot all about Simmons before reaching the next video.