The trilling of the electronic ring went on and on, and then clicked over to Blake’s voice. A cool, ironic monotone as he told the caller he wasn’t available. And if you left a message, and he felt like it, he’d get back to you.

The sound of his voice struck a strange chord in me. I almost missed the jerk. It was like hearing the voice of or seeing a photograph of someone long dead. It reminded me of the years we’d spent together as friends. And now . . .

I tried again, and the line rang a few times before it sounded like someone had answered the call. But they didn’t speak. The ringing stopped, and I heard the sound of dead air.

I waited, then said, “Hello? Blake? Hello?”

I thought I heard breathing. A few huffs and puffs of air. Someone was there, but they weren’t speaking. Or they weren’t able to. Was I hearing the sound of an injured or dying person?

“Blake?”

The call clicked off.

I immediately tried again, but the call went straight to voice mail.

I left a message, but it felt a lot like throwing a rock down a deep well and never hearing the splash. He hadn’t called me back all day. Why did I expect him to now?

And why had he picked up and said nothing?

Had he seen my name on the caller ID screen and felt the same wave of nostalgia I felt when hearing his voice? Had he considered speaking to me, but then decided not to because of whatever trouble he was in?

I tried again, but it just rang and rang.

“Ryan?” Amanda called from the top of the stairs.

“What?”

“Were you talking to someone?”

“I tried . . . It’s nothing. Just a wrong number.”

“Can you come up here when you get the chance?” she asked.

I slid the phone into my pocket, trying not to think about the electromagnetic waves radiating next to my balls. I trudged up the stairs and found her in our bedroom. Henry sat on the floor in his carrier, a pacifier in his mouth. He looked content, like a little red-faced king on his throne. I let him take my finger in his little hand, loved the feel of him squeezing.

“I’m about ready,” Amanda said.

“I can drive you over there. We can spend a little more time together.”

“That’s sweet. Sure. What did you think of all that? The police and everything?”

I could tell by the way she asked—her tone casual but only superficially so. She was trying too hard to be casual. Some thought or series of thoughts was coursing through her mind, and she wanted to see if I was on the same page without being prompted.