It begins with a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in the domestic atmosphere. The movie has reached a climax, the football game is entering stoppage time, or the streaming service has auto-played the next episode of a mind-numbing reality show. A hand, moving on autopilot, pats the space on the sofa cushion to its right. Then its left. The patting becomes more frantic, a percussive rhythm of growing panic. Fingers probe between the cushions, delving into the crumb-filled abyss. The casual lean forward becomes a full-body upheaval as the user lifts the cushion, revealing a forgotten pen, a petrified grape, and existential dread—but no remote. It has vanished. Again. For the tenth time today.