The phone buzzed against my palm like a trapped insect.

Blue light spilled across the kitchen tiles, flashing against the chrome of the fridge. Mom’s laptop chimed from the table. Dad’s smartwatch pulsed against his wrist like a second heartbeat. Even the microwave clock blinked an impatient green.

“Travis, now,” Mom said, her eyes never lifting from the video meeting on her screen. “Shoes. We’re late.”

Late for what? The question tried to rise, but a notification banner slid down over my half-typed message, and my thumb moved before my brain. The group chat from school—*Civics project: emergency.* Another ping from the soccer team. Another from a streamer.

Dad wedged his shoulder under his messenger bag, angling his phone to read a spreadsheet while walking. “If I can just send this before—”

A sharp, metallic clatter cut through the noise.

My little sister, Geneva, had knocked a spoon off the counter. Not an accident. She stood on her toes, pushing it with the seriousness of a scientist conducting an experiment. The spoon hit the tile and spun, ringing.

Dad flinched. “Geneva.”

Geneva grinned and knocked a second spoon down.

Mom’s eyes finally snapped up.

Geneva pointed at our devices with a dramatic sweep, like a tiny judge. “Everybody looks like zombies.”

In the silence that followed, my phone buzzed again.

A laugh stuck behind my teeth. Geneva’s word landed heavier than a spoon on tile.

*Zombies.*

Dad’s jaw tightened. “We’re busy.”

“Busy isn’t an excuse,” Geneva said. She was nine and fearless in that way kids can be before the world teaches them to swallow their truth.

Mom’s cheeks darkened. A notification chimed from her laptop, and her gaze flicked down as if pulled by magnets.

Something sharp and bitter rose in my throat. Not because they were scrolling. Because I’d been doing the same thing.