One says the mother’s number is the old apartment line.

The other lists the Fremont house as your address.

Neither one is yours.”

I put my military ID on the counter and slid it across, then my cell number on a sticky note.

“Update it,” I said.

“And call the number while I’m standing here.”

She dialed.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, and we both listened to it buzz against the fabric.