None of it computes. If he and I were characters in one of my novels, I’d have to give him an inoperable brain tumor the size of a grapefruit for his behavior to make sense.
When a phone rings somewhere in the apartment, I freeze and look around.
It’s not the house phone. And my cell is still where it fell, busted up and silent on the floor. But the ringing persists despite those facts, so I head tentatively to the kitchen, following the muffled sound.
It’s coming from a drawer next to the sink.
Feeling like I’m in a spy movie, I open the drawer and stare at the sleek black cell phone nestled in among a set of tea towels. The phone the size of a credit card that looks exactly like the one James has.
It rings and rings, insisting that I pick it up.
When I do, I realize the thing doesn
