27.
I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hour since they stuck me in this shithole, and now that I have one, I don't know who to call. Not smart. Not happy.
I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid, terrible decisions that I made on the way to this place in my life. I feel like I could burst into tears, like I could tear the hair out of my head, like I could pound my fists bloody on the floor. My fingers, splayed over the keypad, tap out the old nervous rhythms of the phone numbers I've know all my life, my first house, my Mom's comm, Gran's place.
Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put the phone to my head.
"Gran?"
"Arthur?"
"Oh, Gran!"
"Arthur, I'm so worried about you. I spoke to your cousins yesterday, they tell me you're not doing so good there."
"No, no I'm not." The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpoint with my back.
"I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn't have the details right. He said it didn't make any sense."