Dead Battery Walking

Marcus tugged his beanie **hat** lower, practically hiding his entire face. First house party, first chance to finally belong at Northwood High, and he was already hyperventilating in the kitchen.

"Yo, you good?" A girl with neon-blue hair leaned against the counter, slicing what looked like alien fruit. "Want some **papaya**? My mom's obsessed with 'exotic vibes' for her yoga retreats."

Marcus blinked. "Uh, sure?"

"I'm Jasmine," she said, handing him a wedge. "You look like you're calculating escape routes."

"Maybe I am." His **iPhone** buzzed—1%. Of course. No charger, no **cable**, just social paralysis and dying battery while everyone else seemed to live-curate their perfect lives through stories and posts he'd never be cool enough to appear in.

Jasmine laughed. "Dude, you're not alone. Half the people here are **zombie**-scrolling instead of actually talking. Look at them—" She nodded toward the living room where seniors moved in synchronized phone-glazed stupors, thumbs flicking upward in unison. "Zombies, literally. The apocalypse already happened, we just didn't notice because we were too busy watching other people live."

Marcus snorted. "That's... weirdly profound."

"I have my moments." She gestured with a papaya slice. "So, escape artist, what's your story? Besides the anxiety and the hat that's clearly your emotional support beanie."

He pulled the hat off. Hair flattened on one side. "This is ridiculous. I came here to—"

"Be someone else?" Jasmine finished. "Same. But here's the thing—" She held up her phone, showing a cracked screen with a Post-it note that said BE HUMAN. "I decided to delete all my social apps last week. Worst and best decision ever. Now I actually have to, like, talk to people."

Marcus stared at her. "That's why you're in the kitchen eating papaya instead of out there being photographed for your aesthetic."

"Exactly." She grinned. "Your phone's dead anyway. Want to be socially awkward together until this party stops pretending to be fun?"

His phone blacked out. Perfect.

"Marcus," he said.

"Jasmine," she echoed. "Welcome to the resistance. The papaya's actually not bad once you get past the fact that it looks like alien insides."

He took a bite. Weirdly sweet. Kind of like this moment—unexpected, uncomfortable, and exactly what he hadn't known he needed.