Calvin’s words strike Mike straight through. His mouth hangs open for several seconds, the intake and exhale of breath slow. He’s lost, disoriented, and can’t seem to find the ground beneath his feet. There it is–the bench solid under his backside. The phone–real and clutched in his hand. He closes his mouth and swallows, trying to get his bearings. His gaze is vacant, the interior of the rest area blurring in the distance.
“You’ve got me, Cal.” Mike’s voice is a whisper, a scratchy plea of unused words that should have been spoken a long time ago.
“Thanks, Dad.” The call ends, and Mike is left staring at his phone. He stuffs it in his pocket and lifts his gaze toward the exit.