I pulled over onto the side of the road and took my phone in my shaking hands. And then I held it to my chest and wept. I don’t know why exactly I was crying, and I didn’t even have my app to tell me. But it had something to do with the fact that, to me, this little palm-shaped lump of wires and glass and metal and buttons, had been my everything for years. It had taken me out of the lonely place when I didn’t think it was possible for a human to feel any lonelier. It had given me friends, status, fame, a whole life, a network that I could plug into twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, from anywhere in the world . . . except here. But then, just like that, like some fickle beast, it had turned on me. Blown up in my face and now . . . now I had to turn it off.
It was already eight p.m. when I arrived at the only hotel in town and checked in. I lay on the bed, looked up at the ceiling and watched the lonely fan going round and round and round, like some kind of hypnotic thing. It had been dark by the time I’d arrived—except for the ridiculous blue light that illuminated the road beneath my car, making it look like some futuristic UFO—so I hadn’t really had much of a chance to look around, other than the few things I’d seen on the main road. My only concern had been getting to a bed, a place where I could lie flat on my back and rest.
I’d driven for eight hours straight and I was exhausted. Physically, emotionally, and also on some other level that I wasn’t even sure I understood yet, and probably never would, since I couldn’t check Google to find out. I turned over on the bed and looked at my phone. I had placed it on the side table to charge, like I always did. At night it usually came alive. Lighting up with DMs and likes and comments. I liked falling asleep to that, knowing that while I was sleeping, people were still there. But this time the phone was not lighting up. It was just . . . dead. For the first time in its life it really was just a lump of metal and wires and glass.
I sat up and sighed. I needed a distraction. This silence was too damn deafening. I reached into my bag to pull out my AirPods, only to realize I’d left them in a rucksack on the backseat of my car. I moaned loudly and made my way out again. The hotel I was staying at was old—the plaque at the reception said 1899. The architecture—not that I was some architectural expert (but I did have a very popular Pinterest board of interesting buildings)—was a mixture of Cape Dutch and Victorian. Some of the antiques in the room looked like they were actually from the 1800s and had been perfectly preserved and refurbished. A wooden wash-basin stand with a ceramic jug, an antique bedside table, and what looked like original black and white tiling in the bathroom with one of those old baths with claws. All in all, not really my taste, I preferred a more boho-chic vibe—it really photographs well for Insta—but I could still appreciate this. I walked out into the small street where I’d parked the blue cheese. I pressed the immobilizer and the blue lights under the car flickered on and off. #cringe. I opened the backseat and was just about to reach in when . . .
“Oh my God! How did you . . . What . . . CRAP!” I raced to the other side of the road, tripping over my feet as I went, and took cover behind a tree. My terrified heart thumped in my chest, pouring pure adrenalin into my veins. I stuck my head around the tree and looked back at my car. The faint overhead light was illuminating the horror in the backseat.
“You!” I hissed, squinting at the dog who’d clearly hitched a bloody ride with me. And he was not a dog you wanted hitching rides. This dog looked like it came straight from the fiery pits of hell.
“Rrruuufff,” Satan’s snaggletoothed helper yapped back at me.
“Out! Shoo. Go away. Out.” I waved my arm at the thing, but he just cocked his head to the side and looked at me out of his one eye. God, he was an ugly mutt. Not something you would ever post on social media. Those influencers who post photos of their dogs and cats are smart. People like dogs. People like cats. They like dogs chasing their tails and getting confused when their owners disappear behind blankets. They like cats that fall off things and jump when they see cucumbers. But this dog . . . No! Nobody would like him, least of all me.
“Get out of here,” I shouted across the road, but he didn’t move.
“OUT!” I yelled, and this time, he climbed out the car. He stood there. Staring at me. Still as a statue.
Fear filled me. Tearful, panicky fear.
“Go away!” I jumped out from behind the tree and flapped my arms, hoping that would intimidate him. But it didn’t. He was the biggest, blackest, meanest-looking devil dog I’d ever seen. If this dog was a person, he’d be one of those mean, tattooed-faced guys from a late-night mugshot—not that hot one that went viral and became a model—but the kind that if you looked into his eyes for too long, your blood curdled.
“What do you want from me?” I whimpered at him.
“Everything okay?” I heard a voice and whipped around. An older couple were looking at me.
“Who were you talking to, dear?” the old lady asked.
“That dog.” I pointed. “It won’t leave me alone.”
They both turned in the direction I was pointing. Their faces were still for a while, and then they frowned.
“What dog, dear?” It was the little crouched-over man who spoke this time.
“That one.” I turned and looked at the empty spot in the road where Snaggletooth had been only seconds ago, but he was gone. Again! I looked up and down the street like I had last time. Nothing.
“He was just there!” I said defensively. I didn’t want them thinking I was seeing things.
They smiled at me. “Good night,” the old woman said, before they both walked away.
I turned back to my car. The backdoor was still open, but the dog was gone. And for the second time that day, I had the same thought.
Was there even a dog? Was I hallucinating? And if I was, what did it mean? And, oh crap, I so needed Google right now to find out.
CHAPTER 6
I woke up the next morning, rolled over and reached for my phone. I yawned, all warm and comfy and cuddly. I had slept well and felt relaxed as I lay in the bed. I opened Facebook, my usual morning ritual, to flip through the news while I woke. It’s important for someone like me, a public figure, to know what’s going on in the world, so I can make appropriate social commentary when necessary. Like when Notre Dame Cathedral burned down and I changed my profile picture to have that French flag filter. I scrolled a little, but nothing new came up on my feed. I kept scrolling. Still nothing new. I had seen this a few days ago. Why was my news feed not updating?
“Shit!” I sat up in bed and looked around. I really was here. This wasn’t a bad dream . . . I was in Springdorp, in the middle of the desert, in the only hotel in town, with no internet. I sighed loudly and flopped back down in bed. And then I remembered why I was here, and that same feeling hit me in my stomach. Icy at first. Then hot. I climbed out of bed and paced a few times.
My morning routine was disturbed, and I felt wildly unsettled. There were certain things I did in the morning when I woke up: check Facebook first, then Insta, Twitter, then check my emails, WhatsApp. Then go to my list app to see what I had planned for the day. Log my mood. Start the pedometer to count my steps. Then go to the app that planned my social media posts, my app that prioritized my daily, weekly and yearly goals, my motivational app that provided me with thoughtful daily motivation, the app that tracked my heart rate; I might even check the weather for the week to start thinking about the kinds of outfits I could wear for my posts, and then, if there was time, spend some time interior-designing a room . . . but I needed the internet for all of those.