Three Bars of Service

My iphone died at exactly 2:47 PM during seventh period AP Bio. No texts, no TikTok, no escape from my own thoughts. Just me staring at a black screen while Ms. Patterson droned on about cellular respiration.

By lunch, I'd already lost my friend group. They'd migrated to a new table without me — silent treatment because I'd liked the wrong post or something equally middle school. Whatever. I grabbed my sandwich and headed to the bleachers behind the gym, my designated exile zone.

That's where I saw the dog.

Huge, golden, and utterly magnificent. He bounded up the steps like he owned the place, tail wagging with the confidence of a creature who'd never experienced social anxiety in his life. A girl chased after him — Maya, from my history class. The one who always sat in the back and drew in her notebook.

"Bear! Get back here!" she called.

I froze. "Your dog's name is Bear?"

She stopped, panting. "Yeah. My little sister named him. He's a rescue."

Bear immediately abandoned her for me, shoving his wet nose into my palm like we were best friends from a past life. I laughed despite everything. This dog had better social skills than I did.

"He likes you," Maya said, sitting beside me. "Bear's usually shy around guys."

"Guess I have a trustworthy face."

She pulled out her own phone. "Wanna see something?"

We spent the entire lunch looking through her sketchbook — incredible charcoal drawings of people around school, captured in moments they didn't know anyone was watching. There I was, third period, looking out the window with what I thought was a subtle expression of boredom. She'd captioned it: "Boy who wishes he were anywhere else."

I felt weirdly seen.

"You coming to the game Friday?" she asked as the bell rang. "I'm drawing the halftime show."

"Maybe."

"Cool." She whistled. "Bear, let's go."

I watched them walk away — the girl who saw me, the dog who liked me, the golden fur against gray concrete. My phone was still dead, but for the first time in weeks, I didn't mind. Some things were better than three bars of service.