The second was Rachel, an investigative journalist in downtown Columbus whose mother had worked twenty years beside me on the shoe assembly line before cancer took her.

The third was Arthur, a quiet forensic financial auditor I had fed and housed in my spare bedroom during his early accounting internship, when he had six dollars left in his bank account.

My thumb rested over the small plastic keypad as I highlighted David’s home number.

I pressed the green button and held the phone close to my ear, listening to the line click over.

The phone didn’t even finish its first full ring before the line picked up with a faint pop of static.