A quick look told me they were all from Leon, and all variations on the theme of MAN WHERE R U? GOING HOME, I texted back, and made it maybe ten feet further toward my car before the response hit. “WRONG ANSWER. EVERYONE @ MONTAGUES. WAITING ON YOU.” Then, a second later, “RUNNING OUT THAT FRUITY BELGIAN CRAP YOU LIKE. HURRY.” In spite of myself, I laughed, then sent back a response. “NO THX—MICHELLE.” It zipped into the ether with a ping, and I crossed the rest of the distance to my car. It was silver (mostly) and looked new (mostly), at least until you peeked inside and saw the impressive amount of crap strewn around the back seat. Fast food wrappers, abandoned electronics packaging, unopened mail, dog-eared books, and more rattled around back there, accurately reflecting my state of mind most days. The phone rang as I was swinging myself inside. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody uses phones to actually talk anymore, Leon.” He snorted. In the background, I could hear yelling and the clatter of glasses, overlaid with a thin coat of jukebox George Thorogood.
