When did we agree to be watched?

It wasn’t Washington that made me think about it. It was a quiet drive through Florida.

I had spent several days helping my son unpack after his move to Fishhawk Ranch. Like every mother, I was doing what mothers do: organizing closets, opening boxes, trying to make an unfamiliar place feel like home. From there, I drove north to Brooksville to interview someone for an article.

The most dangerous surveillance system isn’t the one we reject. It’s the one we eventually stop noticing.

Somewhere along that drive, I began noticing them.

Cameras.

One after another. Traffic cameras. Speed-enforcement cameras. License-plate readers mounted on poles. They weren’t hidden. They weren’t pretending not to be there. They stood over the road as casually as streetlights, silently recording the movements of every passing