I was about to point it out to Kat but found myself hesitating. It had not been fun to be so without our phones tonight—very inconvenient, undoubtedly scary, and incredibly frustrating. But even though I wasn’t going to make a habit of it, there had been some good things about it too. I’d had to be in the moment, not able to duck out when things got too real or uncomfortable. And on the ride home, even when Kat and I weren’t talking—looking out the window or just sitting in comfortable silence—we’d both been there. We hadn’t been comparing experiences, watching someone else’s night. We’d been too busy living our own.

Kat smiled at Teri, fast asleep, then grabbed a blanket off the other couch and draped it over her.

I reached for the remote, figuring that Teri might sleep better without the TV light flashing all night. As I did, I must have woken the TV up—because there was Teri’s Netflix queue, showing us how she’d spent her night.

“Jeez,” Kat whispered as she looked at it. She turned to me in the glow of the TV light, her eyes wide. “Did she watch all these movies tonight? She’s gonna have crazy nightmares.”

I looked at the screen—Adventures in Babysitting, The Bourne Identity, Midnight Run. “She looks like she’s okay,” I said, and we both glanced down at her. Teri was still in her clothes for some reason, with a brown streak across her forehead that looked like dirt, her hair tangled at the ends. “What is that?”

Kat peered closer, then shrugged. “Maybe she did a mask or something.”

“Hey,” I said, picking up Kat’s phone and holding it out to her. One night was one thing, but it wasn’t like we were going to live like it was 1992 again. And who would want to? But as she reached out and took it, I was suddenly, surprisingly glad that there were no pictures of tonight—no stories, no narration, no shaping the night for other people to see it. No proof at all. We’d just have to remember.

She took it from me and held it close. “Thank god,” she said, and I laughed. She went to unlock it, then stopped, her hand hovering over the screen.

“Something wrong?”

Kat looked up at me, hesitated for a moment, then handed her phone to me. “Here.”

“What?” I asked, not understanding. “You need me to unlock it?”

“No,” she said, holding it out to me. “You should take it. I know you’ve backed your phone up recently—”

“Yesterday. Why you don’t ever back your phone up is beyond me—”

“So you can just transfer everything over. Move your number over, the whole thing. Here.” She stretched it out farther to me, and after hesitating a moment, I took it.

“You don’t have to do this.”