He fumbled in the pocket of his robe, pulling out the expensive brick that used to be his phone. He hit the power button and, faithfully, it turned on to its nice, shiny, cracked, white screen. Handy grimaced and replaced the phone in his pocket, unsure of why he even still kept it. ‘Because it's mine,’ he reasoned. He reasoned. He hated phones, but ever since he got his smartphone, his tune had changed. Not by much, but enough. In his enthusiasm, he had filled the entire phone with as much music as he could reasonably get away with, which was odd since he had rarely, if ever, listened to it. He had at least six hours of classical, some traditional, five minutes of dubstep—he still wasn’t sure why he had that—various other genres, as well as the odd song he liked that didn’t really fit with the rest. He shrugged. Now he’d never get to listen to it.