At seventy two years old you learn that calls at that hour never bring the kind of surprise anyone hopes for because they usually mean hospitals, police officers, or news that burrows into your mind and refuses to leave. I sat up too quickly with my heart pounding hard against my ribs while my robe tangled around my knees, and when I looked down at the glowing screen it displayed two words that made my stomach tighten with dread, BLOCKED CALLER. I stared at the phone for several seconds as the ringing continued in the quiet house before finally answering with a dry throat and a voice that sounded older than I felt.
“Hello?”
Silence answered me at first, yet it was not the empty kind of silence that belongs to abandoned rooms or sleeping houses because I could clearly hear breathing through the receiver, ragged breathing that sounded urgent and strained as if someone had been running through cold night air for a long distance without stopping. Then a voice spoke softly and thinly through the speaker.
“Dad.”