The first time the system flagged my father as “noncompliant,” it was because he missed a check-in. He wasn’t refusing care. He wasn’t confused. He had simply fallen asleep in his chair, the afternoon light warm on his face, the television murmuring to itself. By the time he woke, the automated message had already been sent. The nurse called an hour later, apologetic but firm. Protocol was protocol. My father laughed when I told him. “I’ve survived wars, layoffs and three children,” he said. “I think I can survive a nap.” But the system didn’t laugh. Over time, the check-ins multiplied. Pills tracked. Steps counted. Heartbeats recorded. Alerts stacked on alerts. Each innovation arrived wrapped in the language of safety, efficiency, care. And yet, my father grew quieter. He began to hesitate before standing, unsure whether movement would trigger something. He asked permission for small decisions. He apologized to machines. Once, I found him staring at the tablet on his kitchen table, his hands resting flat beside it. “It knows more about me than I …