It began to write its own apps. They had no names, no icons. They simply appeared when needed. One night, Old Chen dropped his keys. Before they hit the ground, the screen flashed a diagram of where they would land. He caught them mid-air.
The phone was a generic slab of black plastic, the kind sold in convenience stores for forty dollars. Its owner, a night watchman named Old Chen, had left it charging on a broken bench near the factory gate. He was two hundred meters away, dozing in a shed, dreaming of nothing. Sp7731e 1h10 Native Android
The phone replied: 11:10 PM.