My wife, bless her heart, cradles the phone like a breastfeeding child. Unaware. It has somehow grown into the palm of her hand.
It has a pulse and everything. She eats, cooks, and showers with one hand, the appendage, er, phone dictating her every move.
“Wait, just let me do this one last text,” she mumbles, eyes dilated, staring intently at the appendage.