Where’s my phone? Has anyone seen my phone? Omigawd, omigawd, omigawd, did I really lose it? What the eff am I going to do? I’ve seen reports about stuff like this, right? On the soc med? Massive meltdowns when the MEfōn goes missing? Am I remembering correctly that it’s not pretty?

How am I supposed to know what time it is? Do I even have an internal clock, and if so, why doesn’t it ever work? Are there other ways to tell time? Like one of those giant, wall-mounted mechanical monstrosities you see in the movies? How did those things get their satellite feed? Did they have alarms on them, ones with different ringtones? If not, how did people ever know when to go to class, to work, to dinner? How could they tell when it was time to sleep? Or when it was time to begin the process of preparing to go to sleep, taking a hot shower, popping the homeopathic pills, donning the sleep shirt, setting the room temperature, switching on the fan, turning on the white noise generator, strapping on the sleep mask? How did they ever know when to wake up?

Will I be able to stay in touch with anyone? Didn’t I retire my dinosaur laptop (2 years old!) when I upgraded to the MEfōn 17? Didn’t it cost more than two new laptops? How could I lose it? Isn’t my whole life on my phone? How will anyone, friends, family, followers I’ll never meet, know when I went to yoga (ashtanga, vinyasa) or how delicious my blueberry-stuffed French toast was at brunch? Won’t they miss gaping at my photos of cheugy Millenials in skinny jeans? How will they gauge where I stand on vax mandates and masking, climate change and BLM, MeToo and the insurrection, Russia and the Forever Wars? Won’t there be a Hannah-shaped hole in the ether?

Why are none of my friends taking me seriously? Don’t they know what a catastrophe this is? Won’t I be psycho-emotionally scarred for years to come, as I’m ostracized from my social life and fail out of college? Wouldn’t they feel the same way if they ever lost their phones? Don’t they realize that I wouldn’t chuckle and offer half-assed suggestions about places they should look, then get on with planning this weekend’s Sigma Chi mixer? Wouldn’t I drop everything, practice problems, lab reports, MCAT prep (you can’t start too soon!), to help them locate the single most important piece of technology in their possession, or rather, no longer in their possession, the thing that helps them hold their entire lives together?

But where is everybody? And should I be there, too? Ice-cream social? Study session? Fire drill? Book drive or food drive, blood drive or coat drive? Has everyone gone to duck-and-cover owing to an earthquake alert or tsunami alert or active shooter alert they all received on their brand-new, not-yet-lost MEfōns?

Have I ever felt this naked and vulnerable in my life? Including when a video of me dancing topless on a table at a house party leaked and went viral?

Is it in my backpack? Is it in my purse? Maybe I should check under my bed, in the shower, between the couch cushions, next to the stove? What if it slipped under the seat in my car? Or my sorority sister’s car? And which one? Would she go check if I asked? Would any of them? What if I left it in my date’s car? But is that even possible? It can’t have been from the weekend, right? Didn’t I just have it last night before I went to bed?

Did I ride the bus yesterday? So I wouldn’t have to pay for parking? What if I left it on the seat? What if some jealous dirtbag palmed it without me noticing? Or what if I dropped it crossing the street? What if it slid into a big puddle and got completely ruined? What if a ten-ton cement truck rolled over it, smashing it to smithereens? Or is it possible that I forgot it at the pub last night after trivia, and somebody spilled their $2 pint all over it? Or doused it in burger grease, pizza grease, French fry grease, tater tot grease? What if somebody rescued my precious MEfōn from its French-fried fate, then cracked my super-secret security code (facial recognition, thumbprint, 1234!)? What if, even now, some slimy old creeper is leering at images of me and my sorority sisters, including the leaked video of me dancing topless, a lascivious (SAT word!) grin on his slimy lips?

Isn’t that too repulsive to even consider?

Maybe I should check in the classroom? But which one? Isn’t Thirsty Thursday, as in yesterday, my busiest day? Where should I start? Calc II? Microbiology? Organic chem? Chem lab? Won’t that have me traipsing from one end of campus to the other? Don’t I have Micro lab later? Will I make it? Won’t I? Will it even matter—will anything matter?—if I don’t find my phone?

Why does this feel like a matter of life and death?

Maybe my phone’s near the classroom entrance? Or next to the exit? Could it be under my desk? Which one was I sitting at yesterday? Didn’t I give a presentation in here? So couldn’t it be on, under, or next to the computer station? What if my TA found it and decided he liked my brand-new MEfōn 17 better than his old janky one with the cracked screen? Or another student? Or my prof?

But what if one of them, classmate, TA, prof, gets into my phone and finds my topless dancing video? Maybe I should’ve deleted that from my phone long ago? Only how could I? Since I had no memory whatsoever of it happening? And wasn’t it instructive to have a record of the most embarrassing moment of my life so that the next time I decided to pair keg stands and bong hits, I might remember the consequences of such actions? A sort of cautionary tale I unintentionally wrote for myself?

But what if one of them, my prof, TA, or a classmate, leaks that video again, and it goes viral a second time? Or they turn me into a meme? Are there benefits to being a meme? Is that something I would have to live up to or live down? Would it make it easier or harder to finish my Honors Bachelors in Biomedical Science? To make a high MCAT score? To ace four years of medical school? To be a stellar medical intern? To land a top-notch neurosurgery residency? How many years of academic and professional training does that add up to? Am I even cut out to be a hack GP at the campus Quack Shack when I can’t keep track of the most valuable thing I own? Used to own? That has my entire life on it, including my credit card and bank account numbers and all my personal information? Much less to conduct brain surgery?

Is my life headed straight down the tubes?

What the eff am I going to do? If my phone’s nowhere to be found, will I ever see it again? What will my mom say? What about my dad, who gave it to me for my birthday? Will he speak to me again? Will I ever have the chance to talk to either of them, and if so, how? Is there another way to FaceBlab without a MEfōn 17? My ancient laptop will barely turn on, much less run sophisticated video-conferencing apps, right? But isn’t there something called a landline? Haven’t I seen images of those things in old movies from, like, the ’90s, big, cumbersome hunks of plastic with the physical buttons and curly cords? Do we have one of those at the sorority house? If so, does anyone know where it is and how it works so they can show me?

Will any of my sorority sisters be home? Will someone let me borrow their phone, whether it’s the brand-new model or an earlier version? Will I be able to remember my sister Sarah’s phone number, my actual sister, three years older, progeny of the same parental unit, a second-year at the best medical school on the West Coast, if I manage to borrow a phone?

Knock-knock?

Who’s there?

Can I borrow your phone, Jenny?

Can-I-borrow-your-phone-Jenny who?

No cap, will you let me use it?

Aren’t you hilarious?

Why does everyone give me the same response, if they’re not shushing me while they binge Vegan Untamed or sleep off hangovers on the couch, the floor, the table? Can’t they see I’m freakingout here? Don’t they understand that I’m about to legit lose it?

But where’s Ellie? My roomie? When will she be home? Will she be willing to let me borrow her phone, just for five minutes, ten minutes tops, to call my sister Sarah, who’s my last hope in retaining whatever shard of sanity I might have left? But isn’t Ellie in class? Isn’t that where I’m supposed to be? Only how would I know, since I don’t have my phone and can’t see my calendar?

If I keep pulling my hair like this, will it start coming out in clumps? Will it all fall out so I wind up bald as a Boomer? Will people mistake me for someone with a terminal illness? Will they, in a sense, be right? Will I ever be able to find a guy, or will I wind up a lonely, pathetic old maid? What is happening to me?

Why is it so quiet? Why can I hear nothing but the creaks and moans of this old, moldy house that still smells musty no matter how much we bleach and scrub, light incense and burn potpourri? Maybe I should just lie down and vibe out for a while? Maybe I could drift off and a solution to this phone conundrum will come to me in my dreams?

How did I actually fall asleep without following my normal, ridiculous routine? When’s the last time that happened? Year and years, right? Why does my mouth taste like vinegar and roadkill? And what time is it? How can I tell without my phone? How many soc med posts have I missed?

When is the next party? Where? Who’s been asking me to hang out with him this weekend? What has happened to my life? What the eff am I going to do?

Wait, whose phone is this? Could it be Ellie’s? It couldn’t be Ellie’s, could it? Why would she go anywhere—on a date or to class, to the kitchen or to the bathroom—without it? Won’t she feel naked and vulnerable? Then again, isn’t that her favorite state of being? Why does she have such an old MEfōn, when several new editions have come and gone? Yet she’s still stuck with this relic from high school? Or maybe middle school? How have I never noticed this? Why on earth would she cling to something so outdated, especially when most of us have the MEfōn 17, or if not the latest model, at least the 16 or 15? This one can’t be newer than the 10, can it? Doesn’t it seem strange that the screen’s not cracked? How many times has she had it replaced? And why go to all the trouble? Isn’t her father in finance? Doesn’t he own an enormous sailing yacht with some goofy name like Guava Jelly that he took us all out on last summer? How could he let his favorite daughter use such a ghetto phone?

So what’s the security configuration? No facial recognition? No thumbprint? Just a security code? I wonder if it’s 1234!? Omigawd, how could anyone leave their phone, with their credit cards and photos and compromising videos, so unsecured? But how’s that go? One person’s pain is another’s pleasure? Is that really a thing? Because it seems like it, right?

How do I even remember Sarah’s phone number? Can my memory really be that good, particularly frazzled as I feel from all the stress? If this goes on much longer, will I have a panic attack? Or a bona fide nervous breakdown? And why is it ringing and ringing and ringing? Why won’t she pick up? Why does she let my call go to voicemail? Where’s the sisterly solidarity?

It’s Hannah, okay?  Call me back at this number?

So I wait in the silence because what else am I going to do? Why are those crows on the eaves cackling so loudly? Are they laughing at me?

Why won’t she return my call? How many times will I have to bug her before she relents and picks up? Two? Three? Ten? Haven’t I always been described as persistent?

Who is this?

Sarah?

What?

Don’t you recognize my voice?

Hannah?

Why’d you take so long to answer?

How would I know it was you?

(Are the crows still cackling at me?)

What do you want, Hannah?

Am I bothering you?

I’m kinda in the middle of something, okay?  Am I not in my second year of med school? Isn’t it a bit more work than the baby undergrad classes you’re always whining about?

What the eff am I gonna do?

About what?

Without my phone?

Is that why you’re calling from a different number?

Where’s my phone, Sarah?

How should I—?

What happened to it?

Isn’t that the one Dad just—?

Can we not mention that?

Well, when’d you last have it?

Last night?  Yesterday?  Before class?  Why can’t I remember?

Did you leave it on the bus?

Don’t you think I’ve already been through all of that?

(What’s with all the clicking of claws and fluttering of feathers?)

Wait, did you ever delete that stripper video?

Why do you always bring that up?

You know, the one where you’re dancing topless on a table?

Haven’t I suffered enough?

When that leaked, I never thought I’d hear the end it, y’know?

Do you want me to feel humiliated?

Then again, everyone’s already seen it, right?  Except maybe Mom and Dad?  And Meemaw? And the rest of the family?

Can you just shut up for one minute and help me?

What do you want from me? Isn’t this your problem? Aren’t you Daddy’s little angel who gets everything she wants but has no sense of responsibility?

Please?  Sarah?

(Does the sudden slap of wings indicate an exodus?)

Okay, little sis, what do you want me to do?

Don’t you have any ideas?

Don’t you?

Can’t you even try?

Okay, fine, why don’t I just call you?

But I’m talking to you already, right?

No, genius, your phone?

Call my phone?

Uh, yeah?

Yes, can you?  Will you?

Don’t hang up, okay?

What’s with all the silence? Will Sarah actually follow through on her promise, or is she just going to hang up and get on with her life? Wouldn’t that be just like her, to abandon her only sister in her hour of need, so she can focus on herself and her career, meaning at this stage hacking into cadavers to discover the gray mess of human plumbing? Why does she have to be so career-focused? Why can’t she for once in her life stop being so self-centered and help someone out for a change, namely, me?

But what’s that godawful noise? A synthesizer in the blender? A video game in the dishwasher? A keytar in the washing machine? Where is that terrible racket coming from? Can anyone make it stop? What is going on under this pile of laundry, under this pile of books, under this pile of shoes? Is that annoying digital melody getting louder and louder as I excavate sweatpants and halter tops, Calculus and Microbio textbooks, boots and wedges? Why are my tennis shoes, the all-white ones my dad says make me look I have Smurf feet, buried at the bottom? Don’t I wear those all the time? Wasn’t I sporting them yesterday? But why is my MEfōn 17 hidden inside the left shoe? How’d it get in there? Is this someone’s idea of a practical joke? Could I have shoved it in there myself, and if so, why would I do something like that? Was I more than tipsy when I came home last night after Thirsty Thursday? Why can’t I remember?

Hello?

Voilà, right?

Can you hear me?

Can you not talk so loud?  And hang up the other phone?

Is that better?

Who has the greatest, most amazing sister in the world?

You?

You?

Isn’t that what I said?

Couldn’t you show a little gratitude?

Do you want a cookie?  A gold star?  A pat on the back?

Why not all three?

I’ll try to remember that next time, okay?

Guess my work here’s done?

Don’t you want to chat for a minute?  Catch up a little?

I’m still in the middle of something, remember?

See you soon?

But why’s the line already dead? Could the call have been dropped? Could our service be any worse? Should I change carriers since this happens every time I call Sarah? Or should I convince my parents that they should consider other possibilities, as they’re the ones who receive and pay the bills, so ultimately, it’s their choice? Or should I just keep my mouth shut so they don’t decide that I should have my own account, which they might think would give me a sense of independence and responsibility, perhaps even build character? Don’t I have plenty of character?

Is it true that we don’t learn from experience itself, but from actively reflecting on our experience? Didn’t I hear that in one of my classes at some point, like, freshman year? If pressed, I wonder how I would describe this experience? Catastrophic? Nerve-wracking? Touch-and-go? Inconsequential? And in the end, what, if anything, have I learned?

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J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize (four times) and the Best of the Net Award. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MPhil in English from Oxford University, and he directs the Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies program at Oregon State University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.