At exactly 1:58 a.m., my phone rang.

I almost didn’t answer it.

At seventy-two, a man learns the difference between real danger and the ordinary noises of a lonely house. The furnace clicking on. A branch touching the bedroom window.

A phone lighting up because a pharmacy app wants to remind you about a prescription you already picked up.

But that night, the room felt different before I understood why. The air was cold against my arms. The glass of water on my nightstand shook faintly from the buzz.

The blue glow hit the wall, then my hands, then the framed photo of my late wife, Ellen, smiling from the dresser like she was still waiting for me to do the right thing.

I turned the phone over.

Lily. My eight-year-old adopted granddaughter.

For one second I stared at her name like the letters themselves were wrong.

Lily didn’t call in the middle of the night. Lily called after school to tell me about spelling tests. She called on Saturdays to ask if I still had pancake mix.

She called when she wanted me to settle arguments between her and her brother Mason about who got the last blue popsicle out of my freezer.

She did not call at 1:58 a.m.