Chapter 9: The Voicemail

I did not go back to Dearborn Street right away.

I walked the length of High Street in the cold with the statement folded in my pocket.

Then I went back, because I had run out of street.

Floyd was on the front steps with his elbows on his knees.

He stood up when he saw me, and he did not say anything.

"It's real," I said.

"I told you."

"Kelsey helped you retitle it."

"She drove me to the bank. I couldn't have done the forms alone, not then." He frowned. "Why? What did she say?"

"She called the manager twice last week. She asked whose name was on it."

"Maybe she wanted to make sure it went through."

"Then why did she tell me it was your business account, Floyd? Why did she say you'd let me eat crackers?"

He opened his mouth and shut it.

I watched him think, and it was strange to watch it, because for three years I had never been able to see a thought arrive on his face.

"I need to show you something," he said. "I should have shown you in November."

He went upstairs two steps at a time, and I followed.

In the bedroom closet, behind the winter coats, was a shoebox.

Inside it was an old cracked phone with a dead screen and a charger wound round it.

He plugged it into the wall.

We sat on the edge of the bed and waited for it to wake.

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