He touches the screen to transfer the image to his skin, minimizes the image, then calmly walks out of the store as if nothing happened. This is too easy. Once outside, he walks down the block and turns the corner before restoring the image of the new product specifications and uploads the image to a black box, his digital drop. A few seconds later the client must have reviewed his submission because he receives a ping notification of a deposit to his off-shore account. Satisfied, he double-taps the image  on his forearm to bring up a menu to delete the image. That’s odd. Why’s it grayed out? Double-tap to dismiss the menu and double-tap to bring it up again. What’s going on? He shuts down the galvanic display and reboots it, only to find the image has duplicated itself, and neither will delete. The two images become four, and now his entire arm is covered with incriminating evidence of industrial espionage. He unbuttons his shirt and finds several more copies now tattoo his torso, checks his legs to find more. Panic wells up in his throat when he shuts down the display only to find that it won’t shut off. Hiding his skin as best he can, he takes off running, back to the street and away from the store, when he catches sight of himself in a plate glass window. His face is covered by the image, his guilt writ large for all to see. Holding one arm over his face to hide his shame, he runs away, seeking an escape.