"Let me see," I said. I took the phone out of her hands. The plug slipped. The screen went black. Juni made a little sound, and Kellan made the same sound at the same time across the kitchen, and I stood there holding a dead phone and understood, all at once, the way he'd said come on, come on, come on to it that afternoon.
"You have to hold it in," Juni said. "Here." She took it back from me, gently, like I was the child, and pressed the plug up into the port with her thumb, and we waited. It took a long time. It took almost a minute. Then the screen came back, the green stripes, the red sliver.
"Messages," I said.
She opened them. There was a thread at the top with her name on it. Juni, with a little purple heart emoji after it that I hadn't put there either. And she scrolled up, and I read it standing at my own kitchen counter with my daughter holding the plug in and my son standing behind me silent as a post.
64 with a down arrow. 2:51 AM.
im up, he'd written. 2:51. drinking it?
Then nothing for four minutes. Then: juni. Then: coming.
ok. A minute later, from her. Then: thx. Then: 71 now.
go back to sleep.
ur still sitting there
im fine. go to sleep.
And above that, another night. 58 with a down arrow, and down two arrows, and his reply, im here, and a picture — a picture he'd taken in the dark, flash on, of a juice box on her nightstand with the straw already in it, and her hand, small and blurry, around it. And above that, another. And another. Short little messages, a number and an arrow, an hour, a word. coming. ok. 79. 88. go to sleep. night. Sometimes she'd written them herself, sitting up groggy, after he'd already come in and gone. Sometimes they were from him to her, so she'd see them in the morning: u went to 55 at 2, I did 2 juices, ur fine now. eat breakfast. Once, in July: u kept saying the dog's name. we don't have a dog lol. Once, in June, at 3:33 AM, just: u scared me.