These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are the other stories.

It wasn't any normal phone that Amanda had found that day,

lying on the ground next to a chunky red postbox,

a slither of metal and glass.

It surely wasn't her own.

Finders keepers, she thought.

Losers, weepers.

She'd seen the glistening phone from the floor

as she was on her way home from the shops,

with a bag of dried ramen, some fizzy pot, and a pack of six red apples in one hand, she'd bent down and scooped it up.

It was an iPhone of sorts. There was a webbing of fractures across the glass where it had impacted against the stone floor.

She swiped to unlock.

No passcode.

Just a phone.

An iPhone, no less.

Finders keepers.

Losers we Keepers. Lusers. Weepers.

A day later and her colleagues at the sandwich cafe were telling her it was a fake.

No such model existed.

It was flatter and wider than the ones available on the market.

It even had a fake app on there that her colleagues had never heard of.

...