It rang at 11:20 on a Tuesday in April, and I picked it up off the counter and my whole body went back into that hallway — the antiseptic, the wet tile, the green line on the monitor — the way it does and I suppose always will.

It was Emily.

She wanted to know if I still had the extension cord she left in my garage, because the one she bought was too short, and it could have waited until morning and both of us knew it, and she called anyway.

We talked for eleven minutes about nothing at all.

Before she hung up she said, “You had your voice on.”

“What voice?”