The phone had gone quiet on its own the first time, surrendering somewhere in the middle of its fourth or fifth ring, leaving behind a silence that pressed itself into the dark corners of the room like something with weight. Max had let it die.
Had lain there on his back with his forearm resting across his eyes and his jaw set, listening to the particular quality of two in the morning, the way it had no sounds of its own, only the absence of the sounds that belonged to daylight. He had almost convinced himself it was nothing. A wrong number. Someone's drunk sentiment aimed at the wrong contact.
Then ten minutes passed, and the phone came alive again on the nightstand.
