Greg stared at his phone, its screen dark like a dead goldfish. He’d charged it last night, but now it was as useful as a doorknob. The coffee he’d spilled on the keyboard earlier that morning had long since dried into a sticky crust. He jiggled the cable, hoping for a miracle. Instead, his phone let out a wheezy sigh and died entirely.
“You’re welcome,” said Sarah, leaning against the doorway. She held a mug of coffee, its steam curling like a sarcastic eyebrow. “I told you to stop using the charger from the 90s.”
Greg ignored her, fishing a paperclip out of his desk drawer. He poked the charging port with it, muttering about “diy solutions.” The phone sputtered, then emitted a noise like a dying raccoon. Smoke curled out of the port. Sarah’s mug clattered to the floor.
“Okay, that’s not normal,” she said, backing away as the phone began to vibrate violently.
“It’s fine,” Greg said, swatting at the device like it was a fly. “My dad fixed his TV with a screwdriver and a prayer.”
“Your dad’s TV was 1987. This is 2023. You’re basically summoning a demon.”
The phone exploded—not literally, but it made a noise that could only be described as “I’m haunted.” Greg yelped, knocking over a lamp. Sarah laughed until she cried, then pulled a new charger from her bag.
“You’re lucky I’m here,” she said, plugging in the phone. “Otherwise, you’d be stuck in the stone age.”
“I was fine,” Greg said, though he was already eyeing the charger like it was a lifeline. “I had a plan.”
“A plan? You tried to resurrect it with a paperclip!”
“It was a *premium* paperclip,” Greg insisted, as the phone blinked to life. A notification popped up: “Low Battery. Please Charge Immediately.” They stared at it, then burst into laughter. The coffee stain on the floor looked oddly triumphant.
