“In my car.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He was quiet for so long that I thought the connection had dropped.

Then he said he was parked near the old baseball fields where we played as children.

I could picture the cracked asphalt and the chain-link fence.

When we were thirteen, Lucas and I used to sit on the hood of our father’s truck there and argue about who would leave Phoenix first.

He wanted to become an architect.