It is the altered relationship of the dyad of the patient and me, turned into a triad with an interfering third presence. Yesterday, Ms. A and I interacted and we spoke in ease, my hand was the agile reporter for her history; I looked at her intently, and my attention was all hers. Today, we are a triad. Ms. A watches as the keyboard gobbles my clicks. She dozes. She speaks less while I scan the screen. She waits for my attention to return to her. She says she does not want to distract me. Meanwhile my brain sifts words, crisscrosses patterns, condenses ideas, and spins from left brain to right brain and back again, censoring, deleting—instead of merely calling on the “automatic” scribe of decades to spill out the intrepid handwritten note of subtlety, worth, and praise.