Imagine my delight when, bleary-eyed and cortisol-soaked, I answered that midnight call only to hear the robotic purr of the hospice receptionist: 'Check the icebox.' My heart raced—I thought they’d finally developed a cure for my terminal case of being perpetually online. Alas, it was just another TUE (tragedy of unsolicited enthusiasm). But hey, at least now I know where to find the good heroin stashed with last week's takeout.