Before phones lived in our pockets — before they glowed, chirped, hummed, vibrated, tracked us and reminded us of things we hadn’t yet forgotten — there was the pager. In Korea, it was commonly and affectionately called "ppi-ppi." That palm-sized device fit neatly into a brief moment in the technological scheme of things, nudging how we communicated — if only slightly — into the future. In Korea, ppi-ppi weren’t just devices. They let us be connected before we really understood what being connected would come to mean. Almost overnight, pager shops sprang up all over the city. There were at least a dozen in Sinchon alone, along the main drag leading down from Yonsei University — identical, brightly lit and impossible to miss, glowing late into the night. Young clerks stood just inside the doors, eager and alert, ready to usher you into the latest craze. Inside, glass display cases gleamed with rows of nearly identical ppi-ppi, arranged neatly in place, waiting like small, obedient creatures — each one promising that someone, somewhere, might soon be reaching out. Walking p