Chapter 51

But I could probably get a studio for half of what I’m paying here (and then I would have more money for coke! stop it), and maybe I could begin paying off some debt once I found a job again. But the cost of moving is always a lot: security deposit, first and often last month’s rent, the cost of movers or at least a truck rental.

In the midst of these musings, the phone rings. I look at the little display on my phone and see the word “private.” My heart begins to hum, in spite of my sensible head telling me not to answer it. I’ve been conditioned to understand that word “private” to mean one of two things: coke has arrived or is on its way, or some trick I gave my number to is calling me for sex.

“Hello,” I say, instinctively deepening my voice.

“Okay, Rufus. Come on downstairs.”

I recognize the Middle Eastern accent immediately. Sam.

But I didn’t call him. Lord knows I didn’t. Am I doing things now and immediately forgetting?