Jamie nods. “There you go, it’s all coming together now. We’re doing a”—she raises her hands to do air quotes—“twin cosplay.”

Terry puts up her hands in surrender. “As long as you’re getting along.” She hands Jamie the ancient phone. “Here’s your Chocolate. Have at it.”

Jamie accepts it with a grin.

“No,” I whisper to myself.

“Old Yeller and me, back together again.” She pockets it.

I balk at her. “What the underworld? That’s not your phone, right?” I can’t be using an outdated relic. I need a real phone!

Terry hands me my own iPhone X. I cradle it possessively against my chest. I miss Instagram. I miss TikTok. Even Twitter.

Jamie smiles wildly. “Oh, it is my phone. We haven’t been around technology so it hasn’t really come up, but I hate it.”

“You hate what?”

“Technology.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t have a smartphone.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to Gladys at the airport.”

She named her cell phone. Just looking at that outdated slide-up thing makes me anxious. Am I really about to agree to a second week without a smartphone? I miss at least pretending I’m part of a social circle.

“Do you have Instagram?” I ask desperately.

Jamie shakes her head and grins. “Off the grid, baby, forever and always. I am but dust in the wind. I can’t be tracked, I can’t be found, you’ll see me when you see me, and we can chat then like the humans do.”

“Ew.”

We load into Terry’s car with two other retreaters. Jamie keeps up a steady stream of chitchat with them all. I take advantage of this precious time with my iPhone.

As soon as we have service, I’m scrolling through Instagram. It doesn’t take long for quiet tears to make their way down my cheeks as I wind through videos of Celia and Bran dancing together. They’re slowly getting less chaste on social media.

Five minutes into my stalking, someone shoves a tissue in my face. Jamie’s golden irises pierce mine through the gap between the passenger seat and the door.

I take the tissue and blow my nose. Shimmer catches my eye. My snot glitters full of gold flecks. My hand shakes as I fold the tissue closed. That’s concerning.

“What were you looking at, Sier?” Jamie asks, speaking through the space between the top of the seat and the headrest. It’s mind-boggling seeing Jamie with dark hair and dark clothes. I was really doubting the probability of this makeover being convincing in any way, shape, or form, but she looks … like me. I almost feel guilty about it, like I leached away some of her free-spirited whimsy.

She’s taken out the nose ring. She usually wears some bright-colored eyeshadow. She’s only wearing mascara now. Like me.