I let it ring four times. Five. Six. My thumb hovered between the green button and the red one. On the seventh ring, I answered.
"Isaiah." Her voice was warm the way it always was, the kind of warm that made you forget she'd stolen grocery money and disappeared for two years. "You answered."
"I answered."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"Neither was I."
Silence filled the line. I could hear something in the background, traffic maybe, or wind. She was outside somewhere. I imagined her standing on a California sidewalk with her hair blowing in that effortless way she had, looking twenty-eight instead of thirty-six, looking like someone who'd never abandoned two kids in a Kensington apartment with three hundred dollars less than they'd started with.
"I'm staying at the Kensington Inn," she said. "Room 214. I wanted you to know where I am."
"Okay."
"In case you want to talk. Or Iris wants to talk. I'm here through Wednesday."
