Blood and broken dreams. Knows the smell. Knows the weight. Angel who lives in hell. Like Emma tried to. But she failed. This one hasn't failed…Yet.
I pull up my laptop and open Digger's program, which traces numbers.
Phoenix. Medical district. Three-mile radius. Weekend worker—Thursday night availability. Could be nurse. Paramedic. Could be anyone with medical training and flexible morals.
Wrong number meant for Ray.Who's Ray?Doesn't matter.
Phone buzzes.Dylan.
Dylan:Uncle Z, can you spot me $200? Books.
Books…Right. Code forgirlfriend.Kid's just nineteen. Emma's age when…
Nope, don’t go there. Instead, I just transfer five hundred dollars.
Done.
Dylan:Thanks. You okay?
Yeah.
Dylan:Liar.
The kid’s smart. Too smart. I can see him edging closer to the life, and I can’t let it happen. Not to him. Emma’s enough. She’s more than enough.
Back to her messages.I bet she saved me as Wrong Number.I can tell by her response patterns. Typing delays.
Makes sense. But regardless, this is wrong.
I text again. I shouldn’t, but I do.
You still awake, Angel?
Immediate dots. Maybe she can't sleep.
Wrong Number? It's 2 AM. Normal people sleep.
You're not normal people.
Astute diagnosis. What's your excuse.
I count breaths.One. Two. Three.Answer.
Same as yours.
I'm awake because I pulled bullets out of a child. You?
I'm awake because I probably know who put them there.
Silence. I count to sixty. Twice. Three times.
That's not comforting.
Wasn't meant to be. Truth rarely is.
So you're, what? Criminal with a conscience?
No conscience. Just insomnia.
