I looked at the keypad for a moment, and I felt a flicker of doubt, the small cold fear that after all these years the number might be gone from my memory, or wrong, or changed, that I was about to dial into nothing and confirm Evelyn’s taunt with my own failure.

And then my fingers moved, on their own, with the muscle memory of a drill I had performed dozens of times while rolling my eyes at the man who insisted on it, and I dialed the seven digits I had mocked Martin for making me memorize, plus the area code I had never once expected to use.

The number was there.

It had been there the whole time, waiting, the way the woman who dialed it had been.