Return to Sender
The phone goes straight to voicemail. This is Heather, wait for the beep!
“Heather, it’s Flyyn,” I say, “Foster Flynn, look, they know, okay? Call me back.”
I put my cell on the table and lean back in my chair, scrutinizing the patterns on the ceiling. Waiting. I peel a Clementine in fractional increments, hoping that by the time I finish she will have returned the call. It’s six hours and twenty one minutes later when she finally does. I’m still here, Clementine long digested.
“Don’t speak,” she commands, a long shot from the upbeat answerphone, “let’s go to work.”