Chapter 12: The Photo Thread

I stood in the stairwell doorway for a minute and watched him work.

He ran a block of sandpaper along the walnut in long, even strokes.

The lamp lit the side of his face and the shavings on his arms.

My body still felt warm and loose all over, and I was smiling at the back of his head.

I thought: I could stay in this room for a very long time.

Then the black phone on the shelf buzzed against the wood.

He did not turn around.

He had his headphones on, one cup pushed off his ear, and I understood he had not heard it.

I walked over in his flannel shirt, barefoot on the cold floor.

The screen was lit, and it was not a work phone.

It was the cheap kind with buttons.

The message at the top said: "Your prepaid plan expires in 3 days. Reply RENEW."

I almost put it down.

Then I saw the little envelope icon in the corner, and a list under it.

It had only one name in it.

It was not a name at all.

It was a phone number, and it was mine.

I had known those digits by heart for ten years.

I pressed the button with my thumb, and the thread opened.

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