The booth was empty when I got there, one pane of glass broken so the wind came straight through. I stacked two bricks to reach the coin slot. My fingers shook so badly I nearly dropped the coin. Somehow, I fed it in and dialed the number.
One ring.
Two.
On the third, a woman answered.
“Hello? Who is this?”
Her voice was not rough with sleep or age. It was broken by grief.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing.
I tried again, but my throat closed the way it always had. All that came out was a thin, frightened breath.
There was a second of silence.
Then the woman made a sound I have never forgotten. It was the sound of a heart breaking open.
“Lila?” she whispered, then cried out, “Lila, is that you? Sweetheart, please talk to me. Please. Tell me where you are. Tell me anything. Anything at all.”
Tears ran hot down my frozen face. I gripped the receiver until my fingers hurt. I wanted to say Mom. I wanted to say come get me. I wanted to say I’m cold. But fear, pain, and years of silence were heavier than words.
Then the line went dead.
The dollar had run out.