”“Right. I saw in your bio that you wrote Creepy Clown Bulletstorm. It was fun,” said Paige.“You played it?” Max’s eyes widened.“Don’t...tell me you’re one of those ‘girls can’t play video games’ jerks.” Paige crossed her arms.“No. Definitely not.” Max shook his head. “I just never met anyone out in the wild who played it before. It only sold like eleven hundred copies. I thought I might have that many relatives.”“I don’t think we’re related,” said Paige. “Was your father away on business in. We both stared at the screen, absent of offending words."I'm telling you, Eric!" I insisted, jabbing at the screen. "The computer was talking to me!"His frown deepened. He moved the cursor to the Start button and clicked on My Computer. A window opened and we looked at the icon for the hard drive and another one for the recovery partition. "Computers don't talk," he muttered. He double-clicked the hard drive, then on a number of folders inside, examined the Start Menu, and then poked around. More

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