Cards in a deck. Weeks in a year.

I found myself standing at the keypad by the door, suddenly and unexpectedly awake, repeating those phrases in my head. Then I understood. Our burglar alarm was blaring. The children, alive and uninjured (though startled by the noise and now shrieking) must have set off the glass breakers. It was Saturday morning and an argument over which cartoon to watch may have provoked a hurled toy. A metal slinky or a matchbox car crashing onto the tile floor creates just the right frequency of sound to activate the alarm, resulting in sirens loud enough to endear us to our neighbors. Morning had broken.

Fifty-two, fifty-two. Cards in a deck, weeks in a year. I pressed in the code that silenced the noise. Scooby Doo could still be heard with his most distinctive howl emanating much too loudly from the television set. My son appeared. He was explaining, complaining, bargaining and begging to be heard. The phone was ringing and he kept talking even as I tried to hear the caller.

"It's the alarm company, what's our new password?" I asked my husband who was still hiding under the covers. We had changed our password last week from "monkey" when we'd set the alarm off in front of the plumber.

"Cashew." His voice was muffled by the comforter and the bedlam. That's right, we'd switched from wild animals to nuts. I thanked the alarm man and my day moved forward.

Random numbers and words define the entré into every segment of our techno lives. Fifty-two, fifty-two, fingered in every time I come or go from my home. I stop at the bank machine on the way to work. Carefully I enter zero, four, one, one. April eleventh, my daughter's birthday. It spits out my money. I opened a second account recently and went in prepared to use my son's birthday for the PIN number on that account. As I was filling out the paperwork, it occurred to me that if I used the same secret number for both accounts I would have fewer total random numbers to remember, and therefore fewer to forget. It fit in well with my overall goal to simplify life. I held my breath when the account manager asked if I wanted a randomly assigned PIN or would I prefer to choose my own number? "Zero, four, one, one," I replied. He entered it without so much as a flinch, and I felt this smug sense of self-satisfaction, as though I'd gotten away with something forbidden.

I arrive at the parking garage and press in the code. Three, six, nine, two. It is someone's version of Open Sesame, and the huge metal door rises to permit my entrance.

I check my voice mail and I press in my password at the request of the automated female voice. Zero, six, zero, one. My birthday. I have six new messages, eight saved messages, and my mailbox is eighty percent full. The automatic lady suggests that I erase some messages and I oblige her. I check my e-mail. Log-in: dmill004. And then for the password. It had taken me several attempts to finally choose one that met all the guidelines: eight characters maximum, it must include upper and lower cases as well as both alpha and numeric symbols. I'd started to register with 4Chocolate, assuming that I would remember my favorite food. I was promptly told that the password I'd chosen was not valid. Eventually I got to VanillA2 and hoped that I would remember it, which I do today. That gets me my e-mail but it doesn’t gain me access to the internet (or if it does, I don't know how to get there from here). Next, I log on to the internet. Dinah Miller. That's easy, most days I know my name. Password? rellimhanid. That's me backwards, and our internet carrier is kind enough to allow me all eleven letters, unencumbered by numbers or any requirements about mixing character case. I am grateful.

I surf for a bit, then opt to buy a book. It is in my shopping cart and I proceed to check out when I am asked my password. I have only done this once before, and I can't remember. I pretend that I am a new customer with no known password, but somehow the computer knows I am lying, and I am stuck. It gives me instructions on how next to proceed, including directions on how to phone an automated line or e-mail my request for password re-verification. I hit the "x" in the top right window and close the world of the computer.

On my way home, I stop at the bookstore. I ask a human clerk to direct me to my book. I find it in a dimension where I can feel the texture of its cover, balance its weight in my hands, and smell the ink on its pages. Is it easier? I'm never really sure, but today it seems so. I pay with cash and go on my way.