It rang at five AM. Dooley groped for it and stared groggily at the display. He held the phone to his ear. Teresa. She was hysterical. Dooley felt himself go colder than ice as he listened to her pour out a stream of words, apologizing for waking him up, saying it was important, running on and on, faster and shriller, until Dooley told her, “Wait. Stop. Slow down, Teresa.” He glanced at the clock radio on his bedside table. “Tell me again,” he said. He repeated the address she gave him. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. He pressed the disconnect button and reached for his jeans, which were on the floor beside his bed. He jammed his legs into them and stood up. Note, he thought as he crept down the stairs. He should leave his uncle a note. He scrawled one on the back of a grocery receipt and stuck it to the front of the fridge: Gone for a walk. A long one, it turned out, because the buses didn’t run often this early on a Sunday morning. Teresa and Jeffie lived in an apartment above a storefront Greek bakery.
