Susan brought her late husband’s shattered phone to a small repair shop on the edge of town, hoping to fix it for her mother-in-law. When the technician powered the restored device on, a text message from the bank suddenly lit up the screen.
The tech glanced at the text, his face went pale, and he quietly called her over.
“Ma’am, I think you need to see this. I’m sorry.”
And Susan felt the floor drop out from under her.
The repair shop was tucked into the basement level of an old strip mall, smelling of solder and dust. Susan had walked in an hour ago, carefully holding Mark’s iPhone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks. The phone had been sitting in a dresser drawer for three months, ever since the day her husband was gone.
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to touch it. Every time she opened the drawer for a pair of socks, she’d see the familiar black rectangle and quickly shut it. But yesterday, her mother-in-law, Eleanor, had mentioned that her old flip phone had finally given up, and her fixed income didn’t leave room for a new one.
The technician, Dave, was a man in his forties with tired eyes and calloused hands. He examined the device, shook his head, and said the whole display would have to be replaced. It would take about an hour, assuming there were no issues with the motherboard.
Susan nodded and sat on the lone stool near his workbench. Dave switched on a desk lamp, peered through a magnifier, and began carefully separating the broken glass from the frame. His movements were precise and confident. You could tell he’d done this a thousand times.
An October drizzle slicked the windows. Susan watched the raindrops and wondered how she would explain to the kids that Daddy’s phone was going to live with Grandma now. Eight-year-old Katie would understand, but five-year-old Mikey might get upset.
Dave worked in silence, occasionally muttering to himself. He had the new display installed in half an hour. He plugged the phone into a charger and pressed the power button. The screen came to life, showing the familiar Apple logo. Just then, the device buzzed, and a notification banner appeared at the top of the screen. Dave automatically glanced at the text and froze.
His expression changed, his brow furrowing.
“Is something wrong?” Susan asked, noticing his reaction.
Dave turned to her slowly, phone in hand. His voice was hesitant, almost apologetic.
“You need to read this. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
But the message had popped right up. Susan took the phone and read the text on the screen. At first, the letters blurred, refusing to form words. Then the meaning hit her, and a chill spread through her body.
“Loan delinquency notice: $50,000. The property at 45 Central Avenue will be scheduled for auction in 14 days. To resolve this matter, please contact your local branch or our hotline.”
Susan read the message again, hoping she’d made a mistake. But the numbers were the same. Fifty thousand dollars. The address was right, too. Their house, the one she and the kids had lived in for ten years.
She gripped the edge of the counter to keep from falling. Her knees felt weak, and a ringing started in her ears. Dave quickly offered her the stool and poured her a glass of water from a plastic bottle.
“Are you okay? Should I call someone?” he asked, concerned.
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