His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated under the harsh glare of the overhead LED bulb.

He looked at my hand, then at my apron pocket.

The phone vibrated again, a long, angry rattle against my thigh.

“Give me the phone, Clara,” Julian said.

He held out his hand, palm up.

His fingers were trembling slightly.

“No,” I said.

My voice sounded small, but it did not shake.

“You don’t want to do this,” Julian said, taking a half-step closer. “You’re making this much worse than it needs to be.”

I took a step backward, my heel hitting the bottom shelf of the storage rack.

The metal wires groaned under my weight.

I reached into my pocket with my free hand and pulled the phone out.

I did not look at them.

I looked at the screen.

The brightness was turned all the way down, but I could still make out the notifications.

My blog dashboard was a waterfall of scrolling text.

The post I had uploaded twenty minutes ago—the one with the strange, broken measurements for the crustless quiche—had over four hundred comments.