Anker PowerCore 10000 Gave Up

The Anker PowerCore 10000 thought it had a future. The box said "Never let your phone die mid-shift — fits right in the glovebox." That was the dream. A life of emergency charges, quick top-offs, the quiet satisfaction of saving a driver's shift. Jim bought it on impulse. (Impulse buys don't get a retirement plan.)

The first week it lived in the center console. Jim used it twice. Once for his phone during a long airport run. Once for BW's phone when she said hers was at 12%. The PowerCore liked that. It was useful. It felt the warmth of the battery working, the little LED ring glowing blue. It was good.

Then the child found it.

The child has a sixth sense for things that are not toys but become toys. The PowerCore was in the glovebox. She opened it. She said, "What's this, Dad?" and before Jim could answer it was in her hands. The child does not ask permission. She informs you of what is now happening.

The PowerCore spent three days under her bed. It shared space with a half-eaten granola bar and a stuffed cat missing one eye. The fourth day, the child found a Sharpie. She gave the PowerCore a face. Two eyes. A smile. A little hat. (Sharpie on matte black plastic is permanent. Jim found this out later, when he tried rubbing it off with a napkin.)

Then she stuffed it into her backpack for school. The PowerCore sat in a zipper pocket beside a crushed juice box. The juice box leaked. Not a lot. Just enough to make the micro-USB port sticky. The PowerCore's little LED ring flickered once, like a cough, then gave up. It knew. It was not going to charge anyone ever again.

Jim found it weeks later. He was cleaning out the car before an Uber shift. (The child had left it under the passenger seat. It was gummed up with something — dried apple juice? Part of a fruit snack?) He held it. It had a face. He plugged it in. Nothing. The light didn't even come on. He tossed it into the garage junk drawer. That's where it lives now, between a dead AA battery and a screwdriver he bought on sale.

The PowerCore 10000 didn't die in a dramatic fire or a drop from a great height. It just got looked at by the wrong person. That's the thing about stuff in Jim's house. They don't get a story. They get the child. And the child doesn't tell stories. She just does things. The consequences are reported later.

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