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Grilling on a holiday, when you've got the day off, is easy. You can take your time; pull out your artisanal hardwood charcoal; light it in your chimney starter; build a perfect two-level fire; and lovingly tend your rib-eye, or your chicken breasts, or your pork ribs. Holiday grilling is hobby grilling.

Amos and I were walking out of the gym after basketball practice last weekend when he saw a friend inside the lobby. He bolted to the window, rapped on the glass, and began performing a very particular dance. He put one hand—fingers in the shape of an L—to his forehead; his legs jutted back and forth like a dancing bear on a pendulum. Puzzled, I watched. Then I pulled out my phone. “Siri, show me a dance with an L.

The sandwich was unremarkable—lukewarm and not quite melted, like a college freshman’s late-night microwave snack rather than a true grilled cheese. But I have thought about the sandwich every week since I ordered it, because the food truck that made it won’t stop emailing me. First came the receipt. Then the expressions of gratitude, offers of deals. “Thanks for your visit!” one email screamed. “Get FREE FRIES!!” another offered.

I woke up one day, at age 38, and realized I was the worst kind of bored housewife. My kids were old enough to no longer need me, my amusing(ish) satirical novels were largely being unread, and my life had become a dull hum of paint colors and upholstery. I live on New York’s Upper East Side, where everyone shares the same small, incredibly specific concerns—private schools, vacations, and getting our husbands to notice us. I was drowning in provincialism.

Sometime last fall, a man walked into the Nike store in Pasadena, California. He was a runner, it was a running-centric store, and he was there to buy a pair of running shoes just like the ones he had worn in the past. The clerk asked him if he'd be willing to have his feet measured a new way. "I'm a 9," the runner said. "I've always been a 9. Just give me a 9." Still, he relented. The runner walked out with a size 10. What size shoe do you wear? Wait, let's make that more specific.

In an early episode of The Society, Netflix's new YA drama about power and privilege in a socialist adultless future, a group of teens gather to play a game of Fugitive. They split into two teams, each with a specific but precise role: The enforcers are tasked with catching the fugitives, and fugitives must do whatever they can to elude detainment. Many of the town's rich kids promptly elect themselves as enforcers, with almost all of the less fortunate townies regarded as targets of capture.

Happy Thursday, and welcome to another edition of The Monitor, WIRED's roundup of all the best pop culture news. What's up this week? A lot of news about Avatar movies, surprisingly. Also, a victim of the Red Wedding might be joining the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and Batwoman is officially to the CW. Let's get started.