everything falls apart — a serial

Foreword II

I waited until I got settled in my apartment to give the phone a closer look.

When I tried to turn the phone on, I got a whole lot of nothing aside from a flashing battery icon telling me the thing was out of juice in a critical way. No surprise there.

When it finally charged enough to turn on, the corner of the screen read “Emergency calls only.” A large clock sat over a picture of a woman, the grey just beginning to show through dark, shoulder-length hair loosely tied in a small ponytail. Younger-looking than she probably was. Beautiful in a natural way, not made up or phony.

Next to her was a tall blond man with chiseled facial features, noticeably younger than the woman he had his arms wrapped around. Handsome. The type that is perhaps a little too handsome, you know?

Everything about his body language said he considered her his possession. Everything about hers said that he was mistaken.

Kinda creeped me out.

Over the image there was the “PIN required after device restarts” messaging and the keypad, with an “Emergency” button below.

I gave that last one a poke.

Under the medical notes, the owner left behind a breadcrumb. “If found, please mail to Alice Donovan, [withheld], River Falls, WI 54022”.

[Note: I’m withholding all personally identifiable information aside from names and other details relevant to the story. I owe Alice that much. ~a_boojum]

I wasn’t sure how well she would take my acquisition of the Nissan, assuming it was hers, but I now at least had an address if I was inclined to return her phone to her. If so, I decided I probably wouldn’t mention how the screen got cracked. Maybe I’d skip including my return address entirely and return it anonymously.

I toggled the tab for emergency contacts. Only one was listed, a Kyle Donovan with a phone number in the 612 area code, a local number. If Kyle still lived in the area, I could just hand the phone off and say I found it in the street or something.

After rehearsing what I would say a few times, I tried calling Kyle’s number on the phone. After a moment, the phone beeped and the screen reminded me the phone had no service and the call had failed.

I switched to my own phone and called Kyle’s number. It rang three times before someone answered it.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. I wasn’t expecting a woman to answer.

“Hello. I’m looking for Kyle. Can I talk to him?”

There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a flood of words.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is this another collections call for the guy’s sister? How many times do I have to tell you jokers: I don’t know any Kyle, I don’t know an Alicia or whatever her name is, and I don’t know or care anything about either. For the last time: you vultures have the wrong fucking number, okay. I got this number a few years ago. Stop. Calling. Jesus!”

Before I could explain that I wasn’t a collections agent, just a good Samaritan looking to return someone’s lost property, the woman hung up on me. When I tried to call back, my call went straight to voicemail.

I didn’t bother to leave a message. I put the phone aside, let it charge.

On Monday, I’d drop the phone off at the post office and send it to the River Falls address. I figured that she probably replaced it a while ago anyway. It was the least I could do and I could let the whole thing go with a clear conscience afterwards.

People say I’m part cat, and that my curiosity will kill me one day.

The next morning was too cold to go anywhere.

The phone was still on the counter.