Then: never.
He writes it on a torn piece of notebook paper. The same paper you’ve passed notes on in Mr. Hendricks’s history class. Do you like me? Check yes or no. Stay -2005-
Later, you go up to your room. You have a blue portable CD player, and you put on the mix CD he made you last summer. Track four is “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Track seven is “Since U Been Gone.” You lie on your bed and hold the folded paper over your heart. Then: never
“Phoenix is a desert,” you say, like it’s an accusation. Hendricks’s history class
The Razr vibrates.
You look at the house. At the dented mailbox. At the porch light that’s been flickering since you were both twelve. Stay , you want to say. Just stay. We can figure it out. We can sleep in my basement. We can get jobs at the mall. We can—
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.