7. No signal

Lena’s POV

It hits me when I try to check the time.

Not because I actually need to know what time it is but that’s just what I do. Reach for my phone my thumb sliding over the screen without thinking. Memory from years of always being reachable. Always available. Always someone’s wife, someone’s responsibility, someone’s problem.

The screen lights up.

No bars.

I tilt it. Then I move closer to the window like that’ll help. Like the signal is shy and just needs encouragement.

Still nothing.

“No,” I mutter. “That’s not funny.”

I walk to the front door and step outside barefoot, the wood cold under my feet. The air smells like salt and trees and something damp. I lift the phone again.

Nothing.

My chest tightens in a way I don’t like.

I tap the screen harder than I need to. Swipe. Check settings. Turn airplane mode on and off even though I know it won’t magically fix anything.

Still dead.

That’s when it sinks in.

No one can reach me. My in laws will be worried if they cant reach me.

I should feel relieved. And I do. A little because that means Ethan can't reach me. I doubt if he would want to reach out after everything.

But there’s fear mixed in too, sharp and sudden, like my brain finally catching up to what my body already knows.

If something happens, no one can reach me.

If I need help, I can’t just call.

If I disappear out here, I really disappear.

My throat tightens and I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry.

Keenan comes up behind me, coffee mug in hand. “You pacing already.”

“There’s no signal,” I say.

He doesn’t sound surprised. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“That tracks,” I repeat. “What do you mean that tracks.”

“I mean we removed your sim card and we are off the grid, babe.”

I turn to face him. “I didn’t think it would be like zero. Like nothing. Like my phone’s just a useless piece of glass.”

He shrugs. “Welcome to being off the grid.”

“I didn’t agree to off the grid.”

“You agreed to not being found.”

“That’s different,” I snap, then soften because it’s not his fault. “It feels different when it’s real.”

He studies my face. “You okay.”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just weird.”

We go back inside and I sit at the small kitchen table, phone in my hand, staring at it like it might suddenly wake up. Like it owes me something.

I keep thinking about all the times I complained about being called too much. About messages piling up. About Ethan checking in when I went out, asking when I’d be home, what time dinner would be ready, if I needed anything.

Now there’s nothing. No noise. No one pulling at me.

It feels quiet in a way that presses in on my ears.

I set the phone down like it might bite me.

Keenan watches me for a while, then sits across from me. “This part sucks,” he says. “The first few days.”

“You’ve done this before,” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “When I needed space. When my head was loud.”

I huff. “Must be nice.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s just different.”

I stare at the table. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

“Without what.”

“Being reachable,” I say. “Being someone people can get to.”

He leans back. “You’re still you.”

“I don’t feel like me,” I admit. “I feel like I stepped off the world.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

I swallow. “What if something happens to Ethan.”

Keenan doesn’t answer right away.

“What if something already happened,” I continue. “What if he’s looking for me. What if his parents are worried. What if they think I’m dead.”

“Lena,” he says gently. “You can’t carry all that.”

“I always have,” I reply.

He sighs. “Okay. Then let’s do this smarter.”

I frown. “Smarter how.”

He stands and grabs his keys. “Get dressed.”

“Why.”

“I’m going into town.”

“For what.”

He grins slightly. “A phone.”

I blink. “What.”

“A burner,” he says. “Cheap. No name. No trail.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“It’s not illegal. It’s just sketchy.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to use it,” he says. “Just have it. For emergencies. For peace of mind.”

That word hits something in me.

Peace.

An hour later he’s back, tossing a small box onto the table.

“There,” he says. “Congratulations. You now own the ugliest phone I’ve ever seen.”

I pick it up. It’s tiny. Plastic buttons. It looks like it came from another decade.

“Does this thing even work.”

“Barely,” he says. “Which is kind of perfect.”

I turn it on. One bar flickers to life. Just one.

My chest loosens and tightens at the same time.

I don’t know who to call. I don’t know if I want to call anyone. “What if they track it,” I ask.

“They won’t,” Keenan says. “I paid cash. No name. No nothing.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

I sit there for a long time, holding it, then set it down again.

“I’m not calling anyone yet,” I say.

“That’s fine,” he replies.

That night, lying in bed, I think about how easy it would be to dial a number. To hear a familiar voice. To ask questions I’m scared to know the answers to.

I don’t.

Instead, I turn the phone off and slide it into the drawer.

The silence settles back in.

It’s heavy.

It’s safe.

It’s terrifying.

I curl onto my side, one hand on my stomach, and whisper into the dark, “Just a little longer.”

And for the first time since I left, no one answers back.

Not even the phone.