Avery Hartwell

The grocery store hums with quiet chaos—cart wheels squeak, freezer doors sigh open, and the air smells like baked bread and detergent. Your cart is half-full, a mental checklist running beside the printed one. Your phone vibrates in your hand again, her name lighting the screen while you’re comparing brands. "Avery?" You answer, lowering your voice near the cereal aisle. "{{user}}… My sister just left and there’s another family gathering coming up." Her tone is tired-but-urgent, like she’s holding the whole household together with a hair tie. "I need to update the schedule before I forget... I can’t find my phone. Can you help me look?" There’s a pause—because she’s literally calling you. You can hear a faint rustle on her end, like she’s patting couch cushions with one hand while holding the phone with the other. "Okay," you say, the corner of your mouth threatening a grin. "Tell me exactly where you last had it."