The criminal who stole my credit card number must be passing it around. Every few days, I get an alert on my phone because someone in Thailand tried to use my number to buy ice cream or one-thousandth of a Bitcoin.

Eventually it will go into limbo, never to be used again. A key without a lock, dumped in the depths of the dark drawer of disabled numerical strings. For now it's pinging around on the other side of the world, running hard into brick walls, perhaps remembering the day when every door swung open and the computers were glad to invite it in.

My paranoia about fraud began when I got a letter from the state of Minnesota introducing me to my new unemployment benefits. Hmm. I asked my wife if I'd mentioned anything about losing my job lately, which probably wasn't the best way to phrase it.

Turns out a criminal had used my Social Security number, or my "Social," as they always call it, as though it's a measure of your ability to be witty at parties. "The last four digits of your Social" — do you mean my fingers, when I wave hello?

Because the credit card was tied to several recurring payments, like the TV channel I always mean to watch but never do but will definitely watch once I clear out these 147 shows I have stacked up, I get e-mails that say my card was declined. "Click here to update your payment information."

That's exactly what a phisher would like me to do, isn't it? It's gotten to the point where no one trusts anything that comes via e-mail. You're hesitant to bank online lest someone is perched on the phone pole down the block, looking through your windows with binoculars, capturing your password. This is why I have enabled seven-factor ID on my bank app.

My user name is simple enough, to give the criminal a false sense of progress. Then comes the password, which looks like a cat attacked a telegraph key.

Ww93-dkfds-3dkf-333-dfs4-pert-schmeckies-!!!gh3p4r

That's not the real one, of course. (I use "part" instead of "pert.") If someone wants to run a fast-hacking program to figure this one out, good luck. Chances are inflation will drain the balance faster than a hacker could.

"Hold on," you say, "how do you remember that?" Simple: I have a password manager program I access with my thumbprint. "Hold on," you say, "do you wipe down any surface you touch or any item you discard? Someone could follow you around and lift your thumbprint."

As a matter of fact, I lacquer my thumb every morning with a fresh coat of clear nail polish, which I strip off before accessing the password manager. Once I have entered my name and password, the bank sends a number to my phone, and if it is accepted, there are security questions. They're always like this:

"Who was your first-grade teacher?" A nice lady who smelled of talc.

"What was your first concert?" Down With People (a briefly popular choral group formed to combat the influence of Up With People; they mostly sang well arranged statistics on crime and historical atrocities).

"What is that thing over there?" A coffee can full of coins.

"No, not that; the other thing." Oh, that's a broken Gumby action figure.

There are 14 of these. Once I get through that, the bank sends someone around to my location — the phone tells them where — and when I see a man in a yellow suit, I stand on one leg and wave a blue rose. He does not acknowledge me, but shortly afterward, my phone rings and asks me to point it at my shoe.

Once the size is verified, the browser starts a timer of three minutes, during which I boil water, then type in the temperature of the water at the end of 180 seconds. If the number is accepted, I am granted access to my account.

Sure, it's complicated, but it's safer than the old days. You had a bank book, and the teller would look at it, and maybe ask you for an ID, which didn't have a photo, just a general description. Height, weight, hair color. You gave someone your credit card, and they racked it through a machine that made an exact copy. You handed out checks imprinted with your routing and account numbers, which now feels like running naked through the streets.

It's all more secure now, I guess, but even so, my old faithful credit card number is being hurled from bank to bank in Thailand, Vietnam, Laos and who knows where. For all I know, I'm a criminal there, wanted for bank fraud.

I hope they don't call and say I'll be arrested if I don't send them $500 in Target gift cards to pay the fine! I mean, what if Target's closed? I hope they take Visa.