She walked into my phone repair shop on a gray Thursday afternoon, clutching something to her chest like it might disappear if she loosened her grip. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands, and her eyes kept scanning the floor instead of meeting mine. I’ve owned that little shop for twelve years. I’ve seen cracked screens, water-damaged tablets, phones run over by cars. I’ve seen adults yell over lost photos and teenagers panic over broken Snapchat streaks. But I had never seen anyone hold a phone the way she did. For...
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