Page 12 of Hounded

“Did you guys wipe this?” I waved the cell for clarity. “Is that part of the program or something?”

She shook her head, and her fountain of a ponytail swished. “More your part than ours. A lot of people have to cut ties after they leave here. Start fresh.”

Frowning, I looked at the cell and clicked into the single contact.

A name and a number. No address, no pertinent notes.

“I’m gonna call him,” I declared.

I made my way back to my seat and held the phone with my finger hovering over the Dial icon.

Maybe it was too soon. I didn’t want to look impatientandignorant. With a grumble, I dropped the cell into the empty seat next to me. I leaned back until I was as comfortable as I could be, crossed my arms, closed my eyes, and waited.

The music droning from the television would normally have put me to sleep, but I was too bored todoze. Being dead would have been more interesting than sitting in that stiff chair, staring at the insides of my eyelids, and hearing the crickets chirp in my empty brain.

Finally—the clock on the wall informed me it had been about fifteen minutes—I scooped up the phone again. If I called, what would I say?

Hey, it’s Indy. Just making sure you didn’t forget about me. Like I forgot about you…

I stood and took the phone back to Gina’s window. Her smile had an air of sympathy that I didn’t like.

“Something wrong, hon?” she asked.

“Can you try calling him? I have his number.”

“Sure,” Gina said.

I raised my cell to the window, showing Loren’s contact info as she punched in the numbers.

Gina cradled the phone between her chin and shoulder, and it rang and rang. Finally, she cupped her hand to the receiver and asked, “Do you want me to leave a voicemail?”

“No, that’s okay.” I shook my head. “I’ll wait.”

For another fifteen minutes.

The woman who had been sitting across from the TV got called to the back. The channel guide scrolled. Music played. Gina filled in her crossword.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

I craned my neck to see out the double doors to the vacant lot outside. I watched the curb, imagining some car or truck rolling up and the sad man with the pretty eyes stepping out.

But he didn’t. No one came. Same as it had been for eight long weeks.

I opened my phone again, and Loren’s contact information populated the screen. Anger flared, and my thumb twitched toward the Delete icon. It hovered there for a second, maybe two, then I pocketed the cell and stood.

My steps were deliberate as I made my way back to Gina’s desk. She had pushed the crossword aside and was tearing into a granola bar. My stomach growled, and I realized it was past lunchtime.

Gina smiled, exceedingly sympathetic, as I cleared my throat and asked, “Can you make one more call for me?”

Ten minutes later, I rose from my seat on the curb as a checkered yellow cab pulled up. The car idled while I threw my duffel in the trunk. Gina stood on the sidewalk and, when I closed the trunk lid, I glanced back at her. Tears lined my eyes, full of feelings and the thought that being released from rehab felt like being turned out. Rejected. Abandoned.

I bolted away from the cab and crashed into Gina with a hug. She staggered back and murmured a soft “Oh, sweetie,” before wrapping tentative arms around me.

I would have hung on, but all I knew about Gina was that she had a pug named Chips, and she was better at crossword puzzles than me. She wasn’t my friend.

Despite what the notecard stuffed in my pocket claimed, I wasn’t sure Loren was, either.

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