Riddles in the Dugout

Maya sat alone on the metal bleachers, her thumbs flying across her iPhone screen, watching Instagram stories of people having more fun than her. Below, the baseball game dragged on—innings ticking away like homework due dates she'd already forgotten about.

"You're not even watching," said Leo, dropping onto the bench beside her. His uniform was stained with red dirt, cap pulled low.

Maya locked her phone. "It's baseball. What's there to watch?"

Leo grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "The sphinx would ask you a riddle about that attitude."

"The sphinx?" Maya raised an eyebrow.

"From AP English. The creature that asks impossible questions." Leo's eyes crinkled. "My coach is like a sphinx. Every practice, he's got another riddle. 'What gets weaker the more you depend on it?'"

Maya shrugged. "Your phone?"

Leo laughed. "I said excuses. But close enough."

A baseball cracked against a bat—sharp, clean sound. Both turned to watch the ball arc toward the fence, a perfect white sphere against bruising-purple twilight.

"That's Tyler's hit," Maya said softly. "He posted about it three times already."

"Instagram doesn't hit home runs," Leo said. "But you know what?" He tapped her phone case. "The real sphinx question isn't about strength or weakness. It's: What connects you to everyone but keeps you totally alone?"

Maya looked down at her dark screen, at the ghost of her own reflection. Outside, the crowd roared. Her iPhone buzzed in her hand—notification after notification, a constellation of demands.

"Your phone," she said.

Leo nodded, standing up. "Exactly. But hey—you're talking to me right now, not scrolling. That counts as solving it, right?"

Maya smiled, genuinely, and slipped her phone into her pocket.

"I guess it does."

The sphinx would approve. She'd finally stopped looking down and started watching the game instead.