The battery icon in the top corner showed forty-two percent.

I picked it up and turned it over in my palm.

For three straight days, every chime from that screen had meant an insult, an emergency, or a demand for layered lemon desserts.

Now the screen stayed completely dark.

I didn’t unlock it.

I didn’t open my messages to see whether my sister had sent another string of complaints, and I didn’t call the precinct back to ask about my mother’s arraignment.

When Kevin and Brooklyn came back with two tiny plastic cups of ketchup, I slipped the dark phone into my deep sweater pocket and left it there.