“We’re never going to make it,” I say, while we cross over the four-lane bridge that spans the Hudson River. “The bus comes in five minutes, and it’s going to take us at least twelve or fifteen to get home.”
“Try Robyn again,” Sam suggests.
Speed dial her cell. It rings and rings, just like it has the past ten times I’ve tried to call. All I get is the same voicemail message. “Hi, you’ve reached Robyn Painter. Paint me a message, and I’ll get right back to you. You have yourself a bright and colorful day now.”
I slap the phone down on my lap. I could try texting again, but what’s the use? If she’s not answering her phone, she’s nowhere near it. Or her phone is suddenly on the fritz at a really inconvenient time.
“Wish we could call someone else,” Sam says. “It’s not like we can call
