The wicker basket on the kitchen island looked innocent enough, woven from dried sea-grass and smelling faintly of lemons. But tonight, it was a coffin. 6:00 PM. The new regime had begun.

"Drop it," his father said. He didn’t shout; he didn’t have to. The quiet certainty in his voice carried the weight of a judge delivering a sentence with no possibility of parole.

Shane’s thumb twitched against the smooth, cool glass of his phone. A phantom reflex etched into his muscle memory. He unlocked the screen one last time, the blue light flooding his retinas. No new notifications. Just the time, glowing white and judgmental. With a rattling exhale, he let the device fall. It landed with a dull thud against the padded bottom of the basket, right next to his mother’s cracked smartphone and his dad’s bulky black model.

"Good," his mom said, turning back to the stove. The smell of garlic and roasting chicken filled the air, usually a comfort, but tonight it suffocated him. "Go wash up. We’re eating in ten."

At the table, silence pressed down like a physical weight. Usually, Shane would be scrolling under the table, half-listening while dissecting memes and ensuring he existed in the digital ether. Now, his hands lacked purpose. He kept reaching for an empty pocket, a nervous tic that made his skin crawl with restless energy.

Across from him, his ten-year-old sister, Mia, vibrated with energy. Her fork conducted an invisible orchestra as she recounted her day. She didn’t have a phone yet. She didn’t know the gnawing hunger of the disconnect. She spoke about her geography project and the way the clouds looked like whipped cream, her eyes bright and focused on their parents. Irritation flared in Shane's chest. How could she be so content with just this?