Jared had always lived a quiet life in the off-grid commune, nestled somewhere between the mountains and a vague sense of superiority. His family, along with the rest of the community, had chosen to live without modern conveniences. They grew their own food, made their own clothes, and spent evenings by candlelight discussing the evils of technology, capitalism, and processed foods. Jared knew the internet existed, of course—people whispered about it like it was some sort of mythical creature, like a unicorn that ate your soul. But as far as he was concerned, his life was fine without it. Sure, he missed out on the occasional pop culture reference, but when you’ve never seen a TV show, “missing out” doesn’t really feel like much of a loss.

That is, until the commune elders decided that all the teenagers should “experience the outside world” for one week. “It’ll build resilience,” they said, as if resilience meant logging on to Wi-Fi instead of chopping firewood. So, Jared found himself at a public library, sitting in front of a computer that hummed and buzzed like an alien spacecraft. The librarian, a woman who looked like she’d seen the rise and fall of every internet trend, leaned over and said, “Just click the browser icon.”

Jared hesitated, his hand hovering over the mouse like it was an explosive device. After a moment, he clicked.

The screen blinked, and suddenly he was face-to-face with the homepage of a search engine. He typed “trees” into the search bar, because why not start with what he knew? Within milliseconds, he was bombarded with thousands of results—pictures, articles, videos of people talking about trees. There was an overwhelming amount of information about something he’d spent his entire life surrounded by.

He clicked on a video, and suddenly a man appeared on the screen, standing in a park, pointing at different types of trees with the enthusiasm of someone who had never actually touched one. “This is an oak tree!” the man shouted, as if this fact were brand new. Jared stared in disbelief. He could literally see an oak tree from the window next to him, and yet here was this man, explaining it like it was some deep, ancient secret.

He tried a new search: “how to grow tomatoes.” This was something Jared had done every year with his dad, hands deep in the dirt, the smell of earth strong in the air. But the internet had its own ideas. He was hit with an onslaught of hydroponic methods, fertilizing hacks, and “tomato-growing communities” where people discussed their plants like they were delicate, high-maintenance celebrities. One video had a guy measuring his tomato leaves with a ruler and fretting about optimal sun exposure.

“Seriously?” Jared muttered, glancing out the window at the actual tomato plants thriving under the completely unregulated sunlight of the commune’s garden.

But the internet wasn’t done with him. He clicked on a sidebar out of curiosity and suddenly found himself in an online forum titled _“Tomato Lovers Unite.”_ It was hundreds of people—some who appeared to live in actual cities, without gardens—debating tomato varieties like they were high art. Jared read a post from someone named TomatoTom, who claimed to be growing heirloom tomatoes on a Brooklyn rooftop. “If you’re not using organic fish emulsion as a fertilizer, you might as well be growing plastic,” TomatoTom had written, followed by thirty replies either applauding his wisdom or angrily defending synthetic fertilizers.

Jared blinked at the screen, confused by the intensity. He’d never seen people get this worked up over plants before. Out of habit, he reached for a snack, only to find himself holding a pre-packaged granola bar his mom had snuck into his bag. It felt wrong to eat processed food while reading about organic farming, but he unwrapped it anyway.

The hours flew by. Jared ventured into social media next, where he discovered the bizarre world of influencers. He was perplexed by people making six-figure salaries for posting videos of themselves eating breakfast or offering “life hacks” for everyday things—like how to fold a fitted sheet. There were thousands of tutorials on this, all of which seemed needlessly complicated. Jared, who had grown up folding laundry on a washboard, couldn’t believe anyone needed a step-by-step guide. Yet here they were, gathering millions of views.

At one point, he stumbled upon a site selling digital seeds for “virtual gardens.” People were paying actual money to grow fake plants on their phones. The irony hit him so hard he almost laughed out loud in the silent library. Here he was, growing real food with actual dirt under his nails, while people were nurturing pixelated lettuce like it was a pet.

But the more time Jared spent clicking through the endless stream of content, the more he felt a tug between two worlds. On one hand, the internet was entertaining in the strangest way. He’d never considered that someone might spend hours watching videos of people opening packages, but now he couldn’t look away. On the other hand, this whole thing seemed wildly unnecessary. He had a real life outside—one with physical tomato plants, real sunrises, and actual conversations that didn’t involve “likes.”

By the time his week was up, Jared felt conflicted. He’d learned a lot—some useful things, like how to build a chicken coop out of old pallets, and some utterly useless things, like the fact that there were people who professionally reviewed pens. But as he logged off for the last time, he realized something: the internet was like a buffet where half the food looked great but didn’t taste like anything, and the other half was just stale bread.

Back at the commune, Jared’s dad asked, “So, how was the internet?”

Jared thought for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s… fine. But honestly, I think I’ll stick with real tomatoes.”