If you’re like most people these days, you set your watch, if you wear one, to the time on your smartphone. But when I awoke, the clocks in the house once again matched my father’s watch. I fell asleep on the floor, having finally seen the sunset on June 21, the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. I, the master of time, would never again be sent to bed. When the authorities-my parents-failed to notice, I was mad with power, galloping laps around the living room. So I went about covertly resetting all the clocks in the house by several hours, trying to trick my parents into thinking it was earlier in the evening. I had just had one of the best days of my life, complete with friends, a party, and gifts, and I wasn’t about to let it end. Until the night I turned six and discovered direct action. Many nights of the first several years of my life ended in civil disobedience: crying, begging, bargaining. When I was young, it always felt unfair that my parents forced me to go to sleep before they or my sister did. The first thing I ever hacked was bedtime.
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