The Lost Phone

• Leigh Taylor
• Short Story
• 2017

The night sky was so dark that Maria could hardly see the rain as it was soaking through her thin blue tank top and hitting her arms like ice. Thunderclouds roll in low, their thundering like banging on drums, promising the kind of downpour that's to be expected when you live in a small town, where the sun never shines.

Maria stands at the edge of the train platform, staring out at the tracks and at the night before her. Most people would hate having to catch the night train, but her favorite part about leaving meant nobody would know, she hadn't been seen yet and would soon be out of the dead beat town she grew up in. Midnight is peaceful in a way that her life is not. Midnight is the time warp where she can let her thoughts drift without interruption.

The station as it always was at night, shadowed by the high moon, and she tucks herself away safely in the corner, out of the line of sight. Stuffing her hands back inside her pockets, Maria continues to wait for the last train to arrive on the lonely platform.

On schedule, the little announcement chimes plays five minutes later, cutting through the thundering storm. She readjusts the strap of her messenger bag and watches as the incoming train slows down, approaching the platform.

When it shudders to a halt and the doors unseal, and Maria steps inside. The carriage is empty, and she allows herself a small sigh of relief.

As she walks down the aisle, she heads for a seat located by a window at the back of the train. Sitting down her eyes catches a cell phone that's been left behind on one of the worn out chairs. It must have slipped out of someone's pocket, she decides, although it is an easy guess.

Her first reaction is to pat her jeans, wanting to double-check that she still has her own phone. And then, with a cautious glance over her shoulder, she reaches down to pick the fancy looking iPhone up, the leather case cold in her palm as she turns it over. Clutching the forgotten phone to her chest.

No one else boards the train, and when it finally starts to depart the platform, Maria returns her gaze to the lost phone in her hand, held tight. Don't snoop, she thinks, her fingers twitching in protest. It won't take long before whoever dropped it realizes that their phone's missing. They'll probably be at the next stop.

Turning her head, she glimpses at her reflection in one of the large windows. Her black hair is soaked and wind-tossed, and the face she sees before she closes her eyes is pale and makeup free. After spending the last few months planning this getaway, working all day everyday, she couldn't be more glad she was free.

It isn't until there's only ten minutes before her next stop—and still no passengers—that Maria's ability to resist sneaking a look through the phone starts to waver. She can't control the scowl that twists up her face when she discovers that it isn't passcode protected.

Whoever you are, you're an idiot.

Maria opens the Facebook app first, figuring this person must be an active member of the twenty-first century. Sure enough, they're logged into their account, and a new wave of guilt churns her stomach. You're just trying to find out who it belongs to, she continues her inner-monologue.

Satisfied with her reasoning, Helena taps on the tiny, square picture at the top of the feed, taking her to their profile.

Jason Carver.

That's their name. His name.