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When I was seventeen, my father told me that he wanted to have his phone back—so that he could use it if he needed it, especially on those early morning icy drives to work—but that he still wanted me to have a phone. He showed me that he had gotten two cell phones with the intent of keeping one for himself—the phone that we had then was five years old and didn’t get very good service—and giving me the other. I told him that I’d had my own phone for quite a while, but would love to have a nicer phone. (This was a flip phone and it had a camera. I’d only been able to afford the cheapest phone available, but this was about $60, more than I could possibly spend on a phone at the time.) So he gave me this phone, which I kept until I lost it sometime three winters later. It had pictures on it of most of our cats, and while it wasn’t the greatest phone, it suited my purposes.