The Irony is That This Cell Phone Has Gone Through Dante's Inferno and Back and Still Looks Better Than You

Natalia knew something was wrong. She didn’t know right away, but eventually she figured it out.

It came in increments. First, James was quiet. What before were usually loud moments of boisterous laughter became silence, gobbled up into a vacuum.

Second, when Natalia trekked across the street (looking both ways approximately twenty-seven times before deeming it safe enough) to ask him to play, he’d say no. No was a word James did not frequently utter to his sweetheart. But if he spotted Natalia from a window, he’d nearly shove Will out of the house with all the force a twelve-year-old boy can muster.

Third, was that it was nearing the summer months, and James was still wearing long sleeves and jeans. Normally, he’d be the first to shed all the layers the very second the forecast went above sixty. Now, he refused to don his swim trunks and didn’t even try to surf down the slide and into Natalia’s pool like he always did.

Lastly, of course, was when Natalia had her fist raised to knock against the door but froze midway when she heard the screaming.