A Short Story for a Long Problem

When I’m grappling with an issue or a problem, I often turn to story. Maybe it’s in my name. Or maybe it’s simply how humans have made sense of the world for thousands of years.

This morning, my thoughts kept circling a social dilemma facing hundreds of millions of us: social media. The ultimate siren, calling us toward the rocks of life, capable of derailing a journey—or sinking a ship—if we’re not careful.

I hope you enjoy this short parable about a big problem facing our country.

Chris Story

Rob the Morning by Chris Story

Sunlight slipped through the kitchen window and spread across the table. It touched the cereal boxes, the stack of plates, the corner of a well-worn book waiting to be opened. Nothing about the light suggested effort. It arrived as it always did, quietly, faithfully.

Sarah stood at the stove, easing bacon from the pan and setting it onto a paper towel. The coffee maker clicked off behind her. She poured herself a cup and leaned against the counter, listening to the house breathe.

Tom poured orange juice into four cups and carried them to the table. He placed them carefully, spacing them the way he always did. Habit, maybe. Or hope.

Emily wandered in first, hair tangled, eyes bright despite the sleep still clinging to her. She climbed into her chair without being asked. Ben followed more slowly, rubbing his eyes, dragging his fingers along the edge of the table before sitting down.

“Story after breakfast,” Tom said, lifting the book so they could see the familiar cover.

Emily smiled. Ben nodded. Some promises didn’t need repeating.

They ate together. Sarah asked what they wanted to do later. Emily talked about bikes. Ben wanted to build something, though he wasn’t sure what yet. Tom listened, already picturing the day unfolding exactly as it should.

When the plates were mostly empty, Tom opened the book and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he began, slipping into the voice the children knew by heart, “once there was—”

The knock came suddenly.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t frantic. Just firm. Certain. As if it expected to be answered.

They all looked up.

Tom closed the book partway and stood. “I’ll get it,” he said.

When he opened the door, a man stood on the porch.

He looked ordinary enough that Tom’s mind struggled to hold on to him. Middle-aged. Clean jacket. A pleasant, forgettable face. The sort of man you might pass in a parking lot and never notice again.

“Morning,” the man said.

Before Tom could respond, the man stepped inside.

“Excuse me—” Tom started, but the moment slipped past him.

The man moved through the house with ease, as though he had done this before. He walked straight into the kitchen.

“Well now,” he said, glancing around. “This is a nice start you’ve got here.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. His elbow clipped one of the cups. Orange juice tipped and spilled, bright against the wood, dripping onto the floor.

“Oh,” the man said mildly. “That’s a shame.”

Sarah turned from the stove, startled. Emily’s smile faded. Ben folded his hands in his lap.

Tom stepped forward. “Sir, I think you’ve made a mistake.”

The man reached for a napkin, dabbed at the spill without much success, then folded the napkin neatly and set it aside.

“No mistake,” he said pleasantly. “Name’s Rob. Rob the Morning.”

No one answered.

“I won’t take much of your time,” Rob continued. “But I do have something you ought to know.”

Sarah’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “You need to leave.”

Rob smiled, as if she’d misunderstood him. “I will,” he said. “Just not yet.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.

“Last night didn’t go the way people hoped,” Rob said, unlocking the screen.

He turned the phone toward them.

The image showed a house. Or what remained of one. Blackened beams. Collapsed walls. Smoke etched into everything it touched.

“About twenty-two hundred miles from here,” Rob said casually. “Fire started late. Folks were asleep.”

He swiped.

A family photo filled the screen. A man. A woman. Two children. A dog sitting at their feet.

“Nice looking bunch,” Rob said. “Same as you, really.”

Emily looked away. Ben pressed closer to Sarah, his shoulder tight against her side.

Rob swiped again.

The dog appeared alone this time. Tongue out. Sitting patiently.

“Animals never know what’s coming,” Rob said. “That’s the tragedy of it.”

Tom felt something shift inside his chest, like a shelf giving way.

“Stop,” he said.

Rob glanced up, surprised. “I’m just sharing,” he said.

He swiped again.

The front of the burned house filled the screen. Five white bags lined up in the driveway. No close-ups. No details. Nothing that needed explaining.

“They didn’t feel a thing,” Rob said. “That’s what they tell the press. Makes it easier for everyone.”

Sarah pulled Ben closer. Her coffee sat untouched, growing cold.

Rob leaned back in his chair.

“And it wasn’t just them,” he said. “Elsewhere, a man didn’t make it home. Somewhere else, a woman woke up next to her husband, dead. Accidents. Illness. Plenty of it.”

He spoke evenly, as if reciting weather patterns.

“None of it happened here,” Rob continued. “Not today. But it happened.”

The room was silent. The sunlight still rested across the table, but it felt misplaced now. Like it had wandered into the wrong house.

Rob stood and straightened his jacket.

“Well,” he said, “I should be moving along. I’ve got to let the folks next door all about their friends trip to the Bahamas…. the one they can’t afford to go on.”

He paused at the door and turned back.

“Enjoy your day,” Rob said, smiling.

Then he stepped outside, whistling softly as he went.

The door closed.

No one spoke.

Emily stared at the book. Ben buried his face in Sarah’s side. Tom stood where Rob had left him, unsure when he had last breathed.

After a moment, Sarah wiped the juice from the floor.

Tom closed the book.

They stepped outside together. The sky was still blue. The air still warm. The day continued, indifferent to what had been brought into it.

Tom hesitated, then turned back to lock the door.

Then he rejoined his family and they walked on, carrying the weight of what they had been given—and the quiet knowledge that next time, the door did not have to open.