It was an old black rotary phone. He’d given up trying to call out, none of people whose the numbers he remembered ever picked up. He called random numbers for a while, but never got anyone living. He’d reached a few answering machines, and left messages with his name and number.
There were no books and no computer. He’d had the newspaper in his hands when he ran for the shelter that day, but he’d used most of the pages to soak up some spilled water three weeks ago.
Arnold Gilley stared intently at the phone, willing it to ring.