He found his number and pressed the icon to connect him. The phone rang four times and went to voice mail.
“This is Rufus. You know what to do and when to do it.” Beep.
“Rufus, man, it’s Wren. I just read about the second killing in the paper, and that’s fucked up.” Wren paused. “I’m—I’m worried about you. If you’re there and you can hear this, pick up. Oh, what am I talking about? You can’t hear me on a fucking iPhone. God, I’m babbling. Please, Rufus, just give me a call the minute you get this and let me know you’re okay. Please.”
Wren ended the call and finally felt he had himself together enough to stand and walk the rest of the way to work. At least he wouldn’t be late. Thank heaven for small favors.
* * * *