Eleven days of radio static and your voice flickering. It’s still warm now, an ember of a memory that’s yet to cool into something dusty and solid.

Why you called is beyond me. It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon, which means hard work on challenging issues, and the telephone rings. I didn’t pick it up; I was busy staring at my name in a stranger’s handwriting.

And no, I haven’t written or called in ages. That’s partly a schedule with a vice grip that compresses these expansive days and partly a devotion to collecting the shards of monastic sequestration that embed themselves like shrapnel in Sunday afternoons like these.

The radio flickers in and out of reports of killers on the loose. Yes, I have insulated myself from those would-be attacks, but not how or why you thought. Choose your own adventure.

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