I had three quarters in my pocket and lined them on the ledge beneath it before realizing I did not need them to make the call.

I wanted one small thing to stay where I placed it.

My hand did not shake until I lifted the receiver.

I dialed my parents’ number from memory.

My father answered on the fourth ring.

Behind him, I heard wine glasses and laughter, the sounds of people gathered around a dining table.

“Arthur speaking.”

“Dad. It’s Claire.”

A chair scraped.

The noise grew fainter as he moved away from the guests.

“Sweetheart?

Is everything all right?”

“The highway near the state line,” I said.

“A truck crossed the median.