JAMIE FORD
The tone of his voice, that had seemed helpless and benign, now had been sharpened, topped with her name as a spearpoint. Her boyfriend called her Abby, as did her coworkers at the hospital. Only one person called her Abigail, other than her parents, and he’d been dead for years. She watched his body get airlited to a hospital in Durango. “How do you know my name?” She asked as she glanced down at her phone and saw two words that made her feel more alone than she’d been all day: NO SIGNAL. She froze as his eyes, which looked sapphire blue like her ring, turned black. The man sat up, then stood, dusting himself of, his bones creaking, joints popping. “That was quite a ride we had back then, remember?” He smiled and the stranger’s features changed, became something familiar, someone familiar. Abby looked at the setting sun on the horizon, her heart racing, as she wondered if she’d been the one who’d taken a hard spill, lipped over her handlebars, her helmeted head careening of boulders and latrock.
9
