Three dots. Then: That is a sharp sentence. Save it somewhere. And then, a separate message: How is the phone holding up.
Fine, he wrote. Still fine.
He almost added thanks for asking before it broke. He did not. Some truths did not need to be weaponized into gratitude. He did save the sentence in his notes app under a file called Keep.
Early summer arrived with heat that made the apartment windows stick and the hallway smell like other people's cooking. School ended with the usual chaos of signatures and yearbook sharpie. Marcus's report card showed the climb: history up, algebra steady, Spanish quietly excellent. Yvette put it on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a lemon, next to Zora's reading certificate from months earlier. The two papers shared the door without one being centered over the other. Marcus noticed. He did not comment. Noticing was enough, and commenting sometimes turned noticing into a test Yvette would try too hard to pass.
Uncle Omar visited on a Saturday with a bag of peaches from a roadside stand and a loud laugh that filled the small living room. He hugged Zora until her glasses skewed, clapped Marcus on the shoulder hard enough to mean affection, and asked Yvette about work codes and managers. When the kids were in the living room pretending not to listen and the adults thought their voices were lower than they were, Omar said, "You fixed the phone situation."
Yvette said, "I corrected a purchase. Fixing is longer."
Omar made a sound of agreement. "Longer is honest. I can send more in August for school supplies. Ask them what they need. Do not invent a morality play about who deserves pencils."
From the couch, Zora called, "I can hear you."
Omar laughed. "Good. Hearing is free."