"The what?" she asks, forehead scrunching. Who was Gibbs? Another poet? Literary figure? There was a scientist named Gibbs, but she can't imagine what a 19th century physicist has to do with flip phones, or building boats in basements.
Flustered but undeterred, she takes his phone and taps her thumb against it, concentrating. It's still hard for her to do this on purpose; she has to focus on all the praise Stephen had given her, his jokes, his interest. Linking to the phone feels a bit like static crackling from her fingertips to the screen, arcing and twisting until skin and system are connected. She imagines tiny electric stitches holding them together, though visibly there's nothing.
"Alright," Hazel breathes, proud, "Watch this."
The screen turns on to Siri's interface, and a robotic - but clearly young, English - voice says, "Hello Stephen. You are the King Bastard. Who is Gibbs? Searching." A pause, and then, "You are a hopeless television addict, Stephen."
Hazel's lips stay pressed in a pleased smile, and the display slides to the home screen. "Alter it to what?" she asks in her own voice. She's feeling her way through the apps, delighted that she can recognize most of them by touch. "And you wanted, um, a Chef app?"