In the past, Hank’s voice would have been enough to soothe Carl, but it had taken far too long to contact Hank. When Carl tried to reply, nothing came out.
“Are you there? Carl?” asked Hank.
The more Carl struggled to speak, the tighter his chest became. He blinked rapidly; his brain screamed, but no sound left his body.
“I guess I’ve lost you.” Hank hung up.
Carl hurled his phone into the side street and watched in horror as a Fresh Direct truck appeared out of nowhere and crushed it. His last lifeline was gone.
He stumbled inside and collapsed on his bed. Carl became transfixed by the shadow from the streetlight on his ceiling. It looked like a photograph he’d seen years ago when he’d worked briefly for the US Patent and Trademark Office as a patent examiner. He was researching bicycle parts and discovered a magazine story about a man who’d cycled across Africa and encountered human roadkill while crossing the desert. The article’s photograph showed nothing but sand as far as one could see on either side of the thin strip of highway. He wondered how long that person had laid there gradually pressed into the macadam by multiple vehicles and desiccated by the relentless sun into a humanoid stain as flat as an X-ray. Could a person no longer be a person but merely a shadow, unnamed and unheard? Exhausted by his eventful day, Carl’s eyes closed.
The next morning, Carl’s mother found him nearly unconscious due to a potassium deficiency. EMTs stabilized him. They detected an artery blockage and raced him to the nearest hospital with sirens that told Carl that Hank would contact him very soon and they’d be able to talk for a long time.
Carl was happy, resting on the gurney in the ambulance. He knew that Hank was still his friend and would always be because he once told Carl about his older brother, who’d also heard voices, received coded messages, and died far too young. Hank was dependable.
Suzanne C Martinez 