She takes one look at me, and I can tell she senses the residual steam rolling off my back. I head for the refrigerator and try to play it down, but after looking inside, I can still feel the heat of her gaze on me. “I’m not sure what to tell you,” Jenna says, continuing her conversation. A minute or so later, she hangs up. I look back at my wife, and now I see more than concern. She stares at the phone as if it might answer her confusion. “It was Kayla,” she says. “Kayla?” I repeat and feel a stab of discomfort. She never calls here. We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship with her, especially after my disturbing outburst at her home. “What did she want?” “Something about a globe?” Oh, shit. The globe. I’d forgotten all about the damned thing. It’s still upstairs in the closet, inside a pants pocket.
