“Your new number ends in seven-oh-four.”

I paid six hundred forty dollars in cash for the basic phone model and signed the single-page service agreement.

I slipped the new phone into my coat pocket.

On my way out, the glass door clicked closed behind me, leaving the old phone lying dark on the clerk’s rubber mat.

By three o’clock, the break room at the downtown office smelled of stale espresso and soggy paper towels.

I stood at the side counter, wrapping my favorite ceramic coffee mug in three layers of bubble wrap before tucking it into my leather tote.