The next morning I loaded the dishwasher with last night’s dirty dishes, and poured myself a cup of hot coffee. I set the mug on the kitchen table and wandered to the front door.
Birdsong greeted me when I unlocked the door, opened it, and bent down to pick up the morning Herald. The streets were quiet, as they always were on Sunday mornings. Most people slept in. There were some families dressed up, driving and walking to Saint Peter’s Catholic Church for Sunday Mass.
Humidity clung to my skin, and I retreated into the comforting air conditioning of my apartment.
I locked the door and leaned up against it, closing my eyes. Dead silence consumed me. I was ready to crawl back beneath the warm sheets with my morning coffee and newspaper when the jarring sound of the telephone pounded agai
