Juni pushed her chair back. It scraped on the linoleum. She went around the end of the table to the counter, to the toaster, and she picked up her brother's phone with the blue sock still wrapped around its base and the cord still plugged into it, and she held it the same way he held it, in both hands, with her thumb pressing the plug up into the port, and the cord stretched out from the wall behind her like a leash. She couldn't bring it to the table. The cord wasn't long enough. So she stood at the counter and looked back at me over her shoulder.
"Come here," she said. "Mom. Come here and look."
"Juni," Kellan said. He'd stood up too. "Juni, you promised."
"I know I promised." Her voice wobbled and then it came back steady. "I'm unpromising."
I went. I don't remember getting up. I remember being next to her at the counter and looking down at the phone, at the starburst crack in the corner and the two green stripes running down the right side, and her thumb on the screen, tapping in a code. Zero-three-one-four. Her birthday. She didn't have to think about it.
"You know his passcode," I said.
"It's my birthday," she said, as if that explained it, and I suppose it did. The home screen came up behind the cracks. It was almost bare. There were no games on it. I looked for them — I'm ashamed to say it, but even then, in that moment, I looked for them, for the bright little squares, the poker chips, the cartoon swords — and there weren't any. There was the camera and the messages and the school portal and a music app and a weather app, and in the bottom row, where you'd put the thing you used most, there was a small white icon with a green circle in it that I knew as well as I knew my own face, because it was on my phone too, in the same spot.
The follow app.
Juni touched it, and it opened, and there was the graph. Her graph. The same jagged blue line I'd looked at that afternoon, over my toast. One hundred and forty-one, arrow slightly up, from the tacos she hadn't eaten and the grapes she had. And at the top of the screen, in small gray letters: Following: Juniper V.
"I never set that up," I said. "I didn't set that up on his phone."
"I did," Juni said. "In April."
"In April."