Freedom, So Briefly Tasted
Ah, Saturday.
A glorious day. The sun shone bright, the birds sang sweetly, and for the first time in weeks, George felt true, unfiltered relief. His suffering was over. His sentence complete. His phone was finally within reach.
For approximately five seconds...or as Phil said, an hour.
Because the moment Phil handed it back, George immediately began crafting his argument. He could already feel the injustice rising in his chest, the sheer audacity of being deprived of his rightful connection to the world. His fingers twitched, aching to tap at the screen for longer, to reclaim what had been stolen from him for so long. His freedom had been handed to him—only to be snatched away just as swiftly. It was unbearable, and he would not stand for it.
“Phil” George began, adjusting his posture like a proper gentleman. “I would like to have a civil discussion.”
Phil, already suspicious, hummed. “Go on.”
George cleared his throat. “You see, in modern society, technology is not simply a luxury. It is a necessity. A cornerstone of progress.”
Phil took a sip of his tea. “Mmhm.”
“It fosters communication, enhances productivity, and quite frankly—” George gestured grandly. “—without it, we are but lost sheep in a cruel, dark world.”
Tommy, who had no idea what was happening, clapped.
“Hear hear!”
Phil, unbothered, stared at George. “Right. But counterpoint—phones make you lazy and depressed.”
George threw his hands up from sheer frustration. “Phil.”
Phil leaned back. “What?”
“That’s literally not true.”
Phil shrugged. “Feels true.”
“FEELS TRUE?”
Phil nodded, completely unbothered. “Yep. Look at your parents, haven’t visited since they got phones, and when you first arrived, you were miserable. Now look at you, engaging in discussion, helping in the fields...”
George let out a miserable sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Phil, I need my phone.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “Need? Or want?”
George glared. “Need.”
Phil crossed his arms. “For what, exactly?”
George gestured wildly. “EVERYTHING. You need it to find your way around, to pay for things, to call a cab, to check the time, to make appointments! You can’t just—just exist without it! You need it to check the weather, to read the news, to talk to people without literally having to find them! What if you’re lost? What if you need to order food? What if—what if you’re waiting for an important email? What if the bank needs to reach you? What if there’s an emergency and you don’t even know about it because YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR PHONE?”
Phil was not moved. "Nope. You’ll still only get it on Saturdays."
George, undeterred, threw his hands up in exasperation. "Phil, how do you even function? How do you pay for things?"
Phil took a sip of tea. "Cash."
"How do you get around?"
"Walk."
"What if you get lost?"
"Ask someone."
"What if you need to check the time?"
"Look at the sky. Or the town clock."
"The NEWS, Phil? How do you keep up with current events?"
"Newspaper."
George gasped, utterly horrified. "The WEATHER? How do you know if it’s going to rain?"
"Look outside."
George clutched his chest. "Phil, I am going to pass out."
Phil patted his shoulder sympathetically. "You’ll adjust."
George spluttered. “Phil, this is barbaric!”
Phil shrugged. “You survived a week without it. We have lived since the dawn of time without it. You’ll be fine.”
George could feel his soul leaving his body. “Phil. This is inhumane. The Geneva Convention would not stand for this.”
Phil snorted. “You think international law applies here?”
George threw his hands up. “It SHOULD.”
Phil merely smiled, infuriatingly patient. “Come on, mate. It’s good for you. Maybe you’ll learn something new, now that your head isn’t buried in a screen all day.”
George, in pure agony, let out a long “UUUUUUGHHHHHHH.”
Tommy clapped again. “That was a good speech, though.”
After his tragic loss, George stormed to the barn, dramatically flopping onto a bale of hay.
Wilbur, ever dramatic, looked at him with deep sympathy. “Alas, cruel fate has denied you freedom.”
George groaned. “I hate it here.”
Wilbur nodded solemnly. “Tell me, George, have you ever heard of Prometheus?”
George blinked. “…Yes?”
Wilbur sighed. “He, too, was punished for bringing progress to mankind. Tied to a rock, liver eaten out each day. And you—” he placed a dramatic hand on George’s shoulder “—are just like him.”
George deadpanned. “Wilbur, I don’t think losing my phone privileges is quite the same as eternal torment.”
Wilbur shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young.”
George stared. “Wilbur. You are fourteen. I’m 17, older than you.”
Wilbur waved him off. “Wise beyond my years.”
George groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I’m going to die here."
Wilbur hummed thoughtfully. "Probably. But in the meantime, shall we play cards?"
George peeked through his fingers, exasperated. "How is that supposed to help?"
Wilbur smirked. "Distraction, my dear George. If you can’t win the war, at least try to win a few hands of rummy."
George sighed dramatically, but reached for the cards anyway. "Fine. But if I lose, I’m blaming Phil."
Wilbur chuckled, shuffling the deck with an expert flick of his fingers. "A classic scapegoat. Let’s begin."
Phil walked into the barn. His boots pressed against the wooden floorboards, damp from the earlier rain, and his sharp blue eyes swept over the scene before him.
At the center of it all, George and Wilbur sat cross-legged, a deck of well-worn playing cards between them, Wilbur dealing with exaggerated flair while George leaned forward, brow furrowed in intense focus. They looked at peace—comfortable, engaged, part of something bigger than themselves.
Phil exhaled slowly, a quiet warmth settling in his chest. This was right.
This was home.
A flicker of reassurance crossed his face as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them with silent pride. He had made the right decision.
If George had his phone he would be locked up in the attic, not enjoying time with his cousin.