My phone is broken. It was a fluke accident, a perfect storm of idiocy: I was out for a walk with Isaac and Jacob (first time ever, actually, and aside from the telephone tragedy it was a lovely time with my boys), and had both my phone and a plastic water bottle full of ginger ale. Neither fit well in the cupholder on the stroller’s handle, so both got tossed down into the basket underneath and forgotten. Until I got thirsty, and discovered that the water bottle didn’t have a proper seal.
I should be able to get to a repair shop today; there’s an official Sprint store nearby. But until then, I am incommunicado. We don’t have a land line, so my phone is the sole means of contact. I’m lost, adrift, silenced. It’s frightening, really, how dependent I have become on this little chunk of metal.