“Store’s gone out of business,” says the child. A child, too young to be alone, is out in front holding a broken country, too. It’s heavy, but I manage to carry it through the parking lot leaving behind a trail of seeds and the crisp scent of democracy and something that smells like blood or dirt. The next week, I return to U Break It We Fix It with a whole entire country. He has already disappeared into the back of the store. Even if all We ever do is just try to fix It, We should try. Even if it takes the handiwork of one hundred mothers with long white beards and God inside their fingertips, We should fix it. “But if I break It, it says We fix It.” I point to the sign that is the name of the store. I read the numbers, and We silently types them into a computer.
You break i fix serial number#
“Possibly months.” To be sure We asks me to read the serial number off the back of the iPad. We says the soldering work required would cost more than a new iPad.
I hold up the broken screen so We can see It, and a little shard of glass drops to the floor with a plink. We sprays sanitizer on the spot I touched and wipes it dry with a paper towel. We will fix it.Ī man in rumpled clothes emerges. “One minute,” says a raspy voice from the back of the store. “Hello? Hello?” I wait a few minutes before calling out again. The counter glows white, and the walls are empty. I am inside U Break It We Fix It holding my sons’ shattered iPad. Sabrina Orah Mark’s column, Happily, focuses on fairy tales and motherhood.
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