number from memory. It rang three times before the line clicked open.
“I am turning off Route 150 right now,” Duane said before I could speak.
“Are you at the high school?” I asked.
“I am turning into the south parking lot by the tennis courts,” he said. His voice was steady, slow as a grain truck in low gear. “Save me a spot near the double doors.”
“He will not do it, Dad,” I said.
“I know he won’t,” my father said. “I brought my good coat.”
“The floor is slick,” I said. “They waxed it on Tuesday.”
“My rubber tip is brand new,” he said. “Meet me at the side entrance in four minutes.”
The line went dead with a dry click. I set the receiver back on its metal hook and pressed both hands flat against my mouth until my palms felt hot.
The clock above the
